


modus operandi

by Avvu



Series: put a price on emotion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Developing Friendships, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Eventual Romance, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, I mean it, M/M, Politics, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, basically it's a love story but there is also murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 100,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avvu/pseuds/Avvu
Summary: As far as love stories go there is always a start, and that start causes a chain reaction of events. Police work isn't that much different; something happens, that leads to another thing and another and another. This one starts with a murder. Then there is a phone call, then a meeting and another and another and another.(Or part one of how they went from "I just don't do what your brother tells me" to "Make sure he's looked after".)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: put a price on emotion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923898
Comments: 124
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi. first things first: this is a work in progress and there might be warnings added later on. but for now the raiting is teens up and mostly for language and, well, murder.  
> but yeah so, this fic is a handful. 1. i've been working on it for 1,5 years (on/off you know how it goes). i've googled so much murder and gunshots and world events and terrorists that my search history is quiiiite nsfw these days. 2. this goes on forever. and it's probably the slowest burn ever burned, so if you're here for (romance) action, sorry. 3. i'm not a native english speaker, but i sure am a perfectionist, so this fic has gone through a l o t. 
> 
> but nevertheless, here goes. i'm terrified and excited and i hope you'll enjoy this ridiculous story <3
> 
> // edit 14th of Sep:  
> this fic is now a series! let's just say that over the past four months papoe grew itself a plot and a half in addition to the original plot(s). which is fine, just, it's a lot to work with. i'm not sure if it's more reader-friendly to have it cropped into shorter (~100k) parts, but it's writer-friendlier for sure. nothing else has changed!

That morning the sky is grey, just plainly and depressingly grey. Even London is silent at half-past five in the morning when the underground stations haven’t opened their doors for another day. There are only a few cars and in them some poor bastards going to their morning shifts. It’s so bloody early that the whole Canary Wharf looks just grey. Water in the Thames looks like tar.

Seagulls are screeching and the wind whines and inches under Greg’s neck collar even if he tries to tug the collars up. Crushed stones crackle under his shoes as he walks by the riverbank. Greg puts his hands into the pockets of his parka, but it doesn’t help. He doesn’t know if he’s more tired or cold, but the morning is too early for him. His shift should start at seven o’clock but dead people don’t really look at the time. There is the familiar burning of weariness behind his eyelids. Last night has been a late one for him. He has only gotten a few hours of sleep and now his entire body needed to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the team of people wearing white overalls a hundred or so yards away foretell he’ll only get caffeine as a substitute.

“Lestrade.”

Greg turns around and curses out loud as the wind turns with him. It’s so fucking cold in there. It should be against the law to die in January.

“Most people say good morning, but you do you”, Sally Donovan grins. She’s carrying two steaming paper cups.

“It literally isn’t a good morning”, Greg says. Sally keeps smiling despite the wind and the 4.30 o’clock greyness. Greg likes Sally for that, and he likes her even better when she hands the second drink to him. Greg looks into the cup and struggles to hide his disappointment. It’s tea, not coffee as he has wished, but any source of caffeine would do. He nods to thank.

“I’m too old for these four-thirty mornings. My ’ _good morning’_ starts somewhere after six am,” Greg says to her and takes a tiny sip of his tea. It’s sweet and creamy, wrong in all the ways. Greg reminds himself of the time and drinks the tea. He hides his shudder poorly, he can _feel_ the sweetness on his palate. He needs coffee as soon as possible.

Sally has drawn out her notebook, and she gives Greg a look.

“You ready?”

“Shoot.”

“The call came from Anne Bell. She was coming back home from a night shift, and saw something strange from the road there, and came to look. She made the call circa three forty-five. We let her go home for now but asked if she’d come to a hearing at noon. We then checked if you can see here from the road and that checks out.”

“Good,” Greg answer “And the body?”

“Male, around thirty five-ish. He’s been dead for at least two days and in the water the same amount of time. The body was washed to the shore last night. Cause of death most likely a gunshot to the chest. Nine millimetres handgun shot from a scant distance. There are marks of a struggle, but nothing major. And there is no ID, and most of the evidence has washed out into the Thames,” Sally says. “It means we need to work this the long way around. Wong is working on with the lost persons from the last few days, but nothing has come out yet. Also, you know what water does to a body so…” she trails off.

Greg sighs. The unknown bodies are the toughest ones.

“Yeah. So, this kind of morning,” Greg mumbles and besides everything he sips his too sweet tea. At least the cup warms up his fingers a little.

“Yep,” Sally says and closes the notebook. “But you’re here now so I can _finally_ go home and get some sleep.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Before you leave, what do you think? Which one was it?”

Sally raises her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Which one was it? A Cyberman or a Dalek?”

Sally looks both amused and sceptical at the same time. “It’s too early for this, sir.”

“What?” Greg grins. “Canary Wharf, Doomsday? Humour me, Donovan.”

“Goodbye, sir. Try to get something done before I get back,” Sally laughs as she leaves.

Greg waves his hand for goodbye. He drinks his extremely sweet tea and yawns. Greg walks over to the people around the covered body. He can pick up the sound of a shutter throughout the wind.

It’s time for work.

*

Greg rubs his eyes. The day has been a long-drawn, and he feels they have got nothing done. The body they found at Canary Wharf is still unidentified, and it sounds farfetched to him. This man should be identifiable. His face is fine, and his teeth are still in his mouth, but there is something wrong with the records. None of the missing persons matches the body. It makes him feel a poor detective even when he knows he’s excellent at his job. Sometimes it’s just so fucking hard to understand that.

Greg has a feeling that he has walked into some bigger picture. It usually implies that the investigations will be extended and tiresome. And the longer they take, the more complex they become, and that means the media will get involved. And as the case gets into the news, the pressure to solve it will rise, too.

Murders are always hard, but complicated killings are just a pain in the ass. It is one of the reasons he became a police officer in the first place. He has been in the force long enough to know when a case is nice and dandy and when it’s a roller-coaster in Hell. Sure, the sensation of pure and absolute satisfaction, when a tricky case gets solved, is worth it, but that seems to be a long way ahead with the Canary Wharf man.

A few years back, Greg would have already called Sherlock already. He realises it has been a weakness of his, but in those two years, they thought Sherlock was dead, he recalled he could solve even the tough ones by himself, thank you very much. The investigations may have taken longer, but he had solved every single one of them.

Greg sighs out loud and returns to the eyewitness report. Anne Bell has been teary and visibly unnerved by the experiences of that morning, but Greg has no reasons to suspect her. Unfortunately, her testimony doesn’t benefit them at all. Greg stands up and leaves his office to go to the empty break room. There are only crumbs on the counters and circles left behind by coffee mugs there. Greg pours himself a cup of coffee and burns his mouth on it as he sips.

“Is there any news on the Canary Wharf body?” questions a freshly graduated constable, Andrew Upton. He has been the one to hear Anne Bell that morning.

“No,” Greg answers. “We’re waiting for the postmortem report. But if nothing turns up, we need to check every CCTV in the area from previous days. Who’s dealing with the missing persons?” he asks.

“Oakes,” Andrew replies. “He told me he gave up with the UK’s missing persons and has started to look from all of Europe.”

“I would assume someone missed a young lad like him,” Greg mutters to himself.

“You said it,” Andrew says.

Later that day Greg goes to Barts. He knows that Molly Hooper has completed the postmortem. Greg hopes something has come up. He smokes a cigarette in front of the hospital before he goes in. As he smokes, he makes sure to not look at the time. As long as he doesn’t know what time is it, it’s easier to stay perky. Sure it would make him get even perkier if they had some leads. Sherlock’s number in Greg’s phone has started to burn a hole into his pocket.

Greg takes the stairs to the second floor. At the morgue, he knocks on the door to inform his arrival. Molly looks up as Greg steps in. She smiles at him.

“Hi,” Molly greets.

“Hello. Please say you have good news,” Greg begs. Molly laughs a little.

“Um, well, he’s dead?”

Greg hums. “Do you have anything that’ll help to identify him?”

“He’s Sean Taylor,” Molly says and lifts the sheet off the man’s face.

“Sean Taylor?” Greg repeats.

“Yes. A 36-years-old male. Cause of death, a shot to the chest. The bullet has torn up his aorta. There are definite traces of a battle but no other DNA.”

“Presumably because we found him in the water.”

“Or the killer knew what they’re doing,” Molly says shrugging. “One curious thing, though. There are no health records of Sean Taylor before the year 2008. Only a birth certification, but nothing from his first 29 years.”

“Sorry, what?” Greg asks, both confused and excited.

“This man is either some medical phenomenon,” Molly starts.

“Or Sean Taylor is not an actual person,” Greg finishes for her. “Bloody hell. Thank you, Molly. Send everything back to me, would you?”

“Already done,” Molly grins. “Good luck.

“Thanks. It looks like it’s needed,” Greg says. He wishes Molly a pleasant rest of the day, and on his way out of the hospital, he calls Sally.

“Hi,” Greg says at the second Sally picks up. “Can you search up everything you can of a person called Sean Taylor?”

“ _Does the Canary Wharf man has a name?_ ” Sally asks.

“He has,” Greg replies. “And find out if there’s anything before the year 2008.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It looks like there are no documents of Sean Taylor before the year 2008.”

“ _You got it._ ”

“Great. I’ll be right back, I’m at Barts now,” Greg says.

“ _Are you going to stop by Baker Street?_ ” Sally asks in passing. Greg can hear her wiriness.

“Nope,” Greg responds. “I’m coming right back to the station.”

He ends the call, puts his phone back to his pocket, and walks to his car. Maybe he has considered luring Sherlock into the case. It has been a couple of weeks since Moriarty appeared on every TV screen in the country, and Greg hasn’t heard of Sherlock since. He believes that this case could be entertaining enough for Sherlock. Greg finds it interesting, but he would enjoy it more if it wouldn’t mean more working, less sleeping.

He drives back to Scotland Yard and makes himself a deal. If there really are no records of Sean Taylor before 2008, he’d call Sherlock.

*

The day runs by and changes into night. Greg has gone home for a few hours to power nap and eat some actual food, but he has come back to the station. With newly gained energy he has gathered himself all the things they’ve found out so far. He has spread a pile of reports across the desk in front of him. Sean Taylor was born on the 4th of February in 1979 in Yorkshire to David and Amelia Taylor. Taylor’s parents were both dead. Sean Taylor is married to Anniken Taylor, nee Johansson. She was born in 1980 in Stockholm, Sweden, and moved to Great Britain after she had turned eighteen. They had gotten married in 2010 and had no children.

They have tried to reach Anniken for hours but she hasn’t answered her phone. When they have called the office she worked in, they were informed that she hasn’t turned in that day and they don’t know where she could be. It isn’t a good sign. Anniken Taylor is their number one suspect, and they have issued an APB on her in Britain. Interpol has been told, and they have been in contact with the Swedish police.

But something still isn’t right. Sean Taylor has appeared out of thin air in 2008 and since that nothing especially interesting has turned out. He has been a guard in a mall for the past five years and has had three wisdom teeth pulled out. He has got two influenza shots and travelled to Sweden twice.

Greg massages his temples. He’s pissed off. If they find Anniken Taylor and it turns out that she has killed his husband and thrown him into the Thames, there needs to be a very good reason for that. But that doesn’t explain who Sean Taylor is. Greg has to admit that it looks like Anniken Taylor is responsible for her husband's death. Her disappearance is awfully big of a coincidence. And Greg doesn’t believe in those.

Greg stands up to get himself a cup of coffee. Then he’ll go through everything again and he’ll check if there is anything new on anything. He needs to get his thoughts in order before he can go home and get some sleep. He has already let go most of the officers under his supervision. Unfortunately for him, he can’t just leave.

As he pours himself a cup of old, lukewarm coffee, he takes his phone out of his pocket and writes a message.

_I have a case for you. A man is murdered. We found him in the river. All his records start from year 08. Come to the station in the morning and I’ll get you on it._

He almost gets to send the text message to Sherlock when his office door bangs open.

“Sir,” Sally, whom Greg has already ordered to go home, says. The word gets slurred as she rushes to speak. “Sean Taylor’s wife, we found her.”

“Finally,” Greg says and locks his phone screen without pressing the send button. “Where is she? Get her in here as soon as possible, we need to hear her.”

“That’s the thing, sir,” Sally says. “She’s been killed.”

“What the-when?” Greg asks. He grabs his jacket from the rack by the door and hurries Sally out of his office.

“We got the call just now. A neighbour heard gunshots and when they went to see what was happening, they found her dead,” Sally tells him as they make through the pull pen. Greg takes a few remaining officers with them and calls the Chief Superintendent on their way out.

Twenty-three minutes later they have parked outside a residence. An ambulance stands on the front yard, and two paramedics are talking to the assumed neighbour. Greg gets out of the car and is walking towards the door when he hears his name being called.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” someone yells. Greg makes a one-eighty and looks who has called out. It’s only then when he sees the black SUVs and a group of men in black suits and in the middle of them stands a tall man wearing a three-piece suit. Greg almost turns back to the car. The urge to drive away is practically unbearable.

Mycroft Holmes and five MI5 or MI6 agents are standing beside their cars. Greg shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, opens his eyes again and turns to his team. Sally stands there with questions in her eyes. Greg orders them to stand by, and then he walks to Mycroft and the bundle of real-life James Bonds.

“What?” Greg blurts. Mycroft takes two steps towards him and signs something to the agents. One of them is using a wireless, but the sound doesn’t carry to Greg.

“Good day, Inspector,” Mycroft says with a tight smile on his lips.

 _Fuck you_ is right there on the tip of Greg’s tongue.

“Yes, hello. This is my crime scene,” Greg says instead.

His relationship with Mycroft Holmes has been a roller-coaster from tolerance to slight dislike to utter irritation and back. When Greg had met Sherlock for the first time ten years ago, Mycroft had been there the same day. There had been a car in front of his and his ex-wife’s house when he had come home from his shift. The car had taken him to Pall Mall, and there was Mycroft, looking pompous in his designer suit. It had been clear to Greg from the start that Mycroft Holmes was a man with eminent authority over most things. An authority he violated. _A lot._ Years ago a new contact number with the name of _M. Holmes_ appeared in both Greg’s work and personal phones.

And a few times _this_ has happened. The first time for Greg had been when he was a sergeant under the former DI. They had arrived at a crime scene just for MI5 to take over the situation. The past years it has happened only twice. And this was the second time Mycroft himself had come to the scene. Greg can only imagine how many cases have never even reached them as Mycroft and James Bonds have come between.

“Actually, for the time being, it is ours,” Mycroft says and rolls the handle of his umbrella under his palm.

“Why?” Greg asks.

“Why?” Mycroft repeats, an unamused smile tightening from the corners. “Because this ‘crime scene’, as you call it, is way over the Metropolitan Police Service’s capability.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Greg swears. Mycroft makes a tutting noise, and it makes the hairs on Greg’s neck stand up.

“So I believe you’ll take Sean Taylor off of our hands, too?” Greg asks simply to make sure.

“In fact, that was never yours,” Mycroft says, “there has merely been an unfortunate error from our side that I apologise for.”

Greg has to force his shoulders to loosen up and his fists to open. He’s working, having a discussion with people from SIS or wherever, and he needs to keep his calm.

“Right. Fine,” he grumbles. “Great.”

“Yes,” Mycroft drawls. “Now, if you’d excuse us, my men need to get to work and yours are in the way.”

Greg turns to look back at his team and sees Sally talking with one of the Bonds. He sighs. Greg hates this. He hates that he needs to go back to his team and release them from the case. Then he has to make sure that everything they have on the case is turned in and most likely wiped out from their records.

Greg is certain that if he hadn’t ever met Sherlock, he wouldn’t have to deal with the Secret Service as much as he did now.

“So what you expect me to do?” Greg asks and tries and fails to keep his tone calm and professional.

“Wait,” Mycroft says impatiently, it sounds like a disguised sigh.

So maybe the annoyance is not just one-sided. Greg doesn’t care either way. He goes back to his team and explains to them ambiguously what is going on. He notices how Sally looks at Mycroft over Greg’s shoulder, and the recognition in her eyes is clear. Greg swears under his breath. It’s bad enough that he needs to deal with Mycroft at all, but now he realises he needs to deal with Sally, too.

As they do as they’re told, wait, Greg walks a few steps farther from the scene and lights up a cigarette. It takes him a few drags for the combination of nicotine and deep breaths to kick in. He tries to think of the alternative side of things—at least he can quit thinking about Sean Taylor. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t find out anything. Nevertheless, it pissed him off that en entire day has gone by and he has done worthless work for hours. He puts out the cigarette when it’s only half-smoked and steps the butt on the asphalt. He goes back to his car, and there is a black-suited man waiting for him. Greg notices that Mycroft has already left.

“What’s up?” Greg asks.

“We are finished now. The rest of the investigations goes to you lot,” the man responds. Greg raises both of his eyebrows.

“Sorry?” he says, almost amused.

The man repeats his earlier words and leaves. Greg’s phone rings in his pocket. The Chief Superintendent is calling him. Greg answers the call.

“ _Lestrade_ ,” the CS says, “ _here’s the thing. You go on with the murder of Anniken Taylor and the MI6 takes care of the rest_.”

“Right,” Greg says. He has learned that the fewer questions he asks, the better. “So what if they’re connected to one other?” he asks.

“ _Apparently they aren’t,_ ” the CS says matter-of-factly.

“All right,” Greg says and beckons his team to get to work. He can feel the sigh of relief that goes through his subordinates. He ends the call and finally, they can do their god-damn work.

Inside the house, Greg sighs at the view in front of him. Anniken Taylor lies on her back in a puddle of dark blood on the floor. Long, bleached hair is spread across her face, and there is blood on it too. The interior of the house looks otherwise typical. There are yellow cabinets in the kitchen, and plates in the sink. There are unopened mail and bills on the dinner table. On the living room floor, there is an Anatolian rug and in the entrance hall, there are wind breakers hanging from the coat rack. It’s a regular house of a married couple. Too bad both halves of the said couple are dead.

“This seems strange, doesn’t it?” Sally asks. She stands next to Greg, looking around with her hands on her hips.

“If you only knew,” Greg mutters. “Let’s get to work then.”

“Yeah,” Sally replies, then hesitates. “Do you think this is linked to Sean Taylor’s death?”

Greg shrugs.

“Do we get to keep this?” Sally keeps on going with queries.

“Hopefully, yes,” Greg answers, putting rubber gloves on.

“Hopefully,” Sally repeats under her breath. “What was Mycroft Holmes doing here?”

Greg sighs out loud and turns around to look at Sally. She stares back, but Greg can see her scepticism.

“You know as much as I do,” Greg says. “Get to work, so we can go home sometime soon.”

Sally says nothing, but gives up and doesn’t interrogate Greg any further.

Greg goes back to the kitchen. He takes out a couple of evidence bags and goes through Taylors’ mail. An electricity bill, phone bill and a postcard. Greg turns the card around and tries to understand the words. He doesn’t know any Swedish and his guesses get him as far as _hej_ and that possibly means _hi_. He waves the photographer closer and orders him to take a picture of the postcard and the greetings written on it. The card is for Anniken, and Greg notices how the letter T on her surname looks like someone has written something that starts with the letter J. Wasn’t Anniken’s maiden name Johansson? Anniken Taylor has been married for five years, surely five years is enough for people close to you to memorise your new last name.

After Greg’s finished with the kitchen, he checks the bedroom. He finds nothing strange there.

“Lestrade,” Sally says slowly as she comes to the bedroom.

“Yeah?” Greg replies absent-mindedly as he opens up the drawers of the bed-side table. There is only a tube of moisturiser and a carton of condoms in there.

“We can’t find her phone. Or her husband’s,” Sally adds.

“What?” Greg startles. “Are you sure?”

Sally nods. “Yes. We found no trace of them, but they both had cell phone plans.”

“They do, there were phone bills on the dinner table,” Greg says and suddenly stops. “Fuck,” he swears out loud. Sally looks at him with a stunned expression on her face.

“Sorry,” Greg says. “I need to make a call. You continue here,” he orders, takes off the rubber gloves. He goes outside. It has started to drizzle. He lights up a cigarette and finds the name _M. Holmes_ from his phone’s contacts, and he makes the call. Greg is so fucking sure that the phones aren’t missing.

Mycroft makes him wait, Greg hears one, two, three, four beeps before the beeping is interrupted by Mycroft’s voice.

“ _This is quite the time to call, Inspector,_ ” Mycroft says. Greg checks the time from his wristwatch. It’s just past midnight.

“Sucks for you,” Greg says. “So, do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Sean and Anniken Taylor’s phones?”

The line goes silent for a moment. Greg shakes his head, he has guessed right.

“ _There’s no need for you to worry about them,_ ” Mycroft says. Greg huffs.

“So, what? Do you think I can go back in there and tell everybody that there are no phones and it’s worthless to even try to find them?”

“ _It’s worthless to even try to find them,_ ” Mycroft says.

“For fuck’s sake,” Greg groans.

“ _No need to get angry for,_ ” Mycroft intones.

Greg needs to take the phone off of his ear because he has already gotten angry, and Mycroft’s comments don’t help at all. He breathes slowly, counts backwards from ten to zero, and then he takes a long drag from his cigarette before he gets back to the call.

“Could we get the fucking phones?” Greg asks as calmly as he can. It’s not very calm.

“ _No_ ,” Mycroft says straight away. “ _There is –_ “

“Right then,” Greg says. “This doesn’t work like this. Either you lot take the case or you give us the evidence we need.”

“ _We’re simply trying to do our jobs,_ ” Mycroft says irritably calm.

“So am I.”

Mycroft is quiet for a minute. “ _I’ll see what I can do._ ” And by those words, he ends the call. Greg is left there to look at the blackened screen and with irritation going over him in waves. Greg realises he’s way too tired to deal with Mycroft Holmes twice in a short period of time.

*

The following day isn’t easier than the one before. Greg has had to give a made-up explanation to get Sally off his back. She hasn’t been able to give up about the phones and Greg is positive that if he told her that the MI6 or whatever has them, they would accuse him of treason. Greg doesn’t want to take that risk.

Anniken Taylor’s death seems almost as hopeless to investigate as her husband’s. Now they know who the victim is, but that seems to be the only factor they do know. Anniken Taylor’s case is at a dead end. Greg has received a statement from the neighbour who had heard the gunshots, but she had seen no one going in or coming out of the house. The killer has used a different gun than the one that was used to kill Sean Taylor and the fact frustrates him. It most likely means that the killer isn’t the same one.

Greg gives up. It has been a hell of a day, and he needs food and some easy telly to get his mind off the case for a moment. He gets up to leave, but someone knocks on his door.

“Come in,” Greg prompts. The door opens and Mycroft’s PA, or secretary, or whatever a man like Mycroft would call it, steps in. Her name is Agatha or Aitana, Greg isn’t sure. She smiles at him and comes in. She has a brown paper bag with her, and she places it on the desk.

“Are those–?” Greg asks. She nods.

“There is also a car waiting for you, sir,” she says.

“Of course there is,” Greg says. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be down.”

Agatha or Aitana smiles at him, and Greg follows her out of the office. She continues down and Greg goes to the break room. There is Andrew drinking a cup of coffee. Greg opens the bag, and inside there are two cell phones in a plastic bag and a note. Greg takes the note and reads it.

_These are the cell phones you requested. I believe you understand that all sensitive information and/or that doesn’t consider the Metropolitan Police Service, has been removed. There are no traces left from the removal of the information so you and your employees don’t have to torment your brains._

— _M. Holmes_

Greg shakes his head. He’s not even surprised. He puts the note into his pocket and takes the plastic bag out of the paper bag. He puts it on the table with a loud _clonk_ and Andrew spurts a bit of coffee out of his mouth.

“What the hell?” he asks.

“These are Sean and Anniken Taylor’s phones,” Greg tells him.

“Where were they?” Andrew asks and reaches for the phones. Greg shrugs; it’s easier than lying.

“Good thing is that they are found,” he says. “Maybe we’re just bad at spotting things. I need to go to a meeting, so make sure those go to the labs, would you?”

“Sure thing, sir,” Andrew says and stands up.

Greg thanks him and goes back to his office to get his parka. Then he goes out and sits into a black car.

*

Greg always feels rather absurd as he sits on the back seat of those black cars, glancing out through dim windows. Now Agatha or Aitana sits beside him, looking at her phone and not saying a word. It makes Greg feel awkward. They sit in silence for about ten minutes, then the driver stops the car, gets out and opens the door for Greg. Greg thanks him clumsily and looks around. The road ahead of him is Whitehall, he knows it fairly well. He recognises the building. He has been there before, but he has no idea, which way he needs to go to reach Mycroft’s office.

“Sir,” Agatha or Aitana says and Greg turns to look at her. She’s standing next to him. “Shall we?” she suggests and points at the door few yards ahead.

Greg follows her inside and down a staircase. Then they make at least eight turns until she stops in front of a door. There is a white tile by the doorway, and on the plate it says _M. Holmes_. It looks grand and important. The nametag by Greg’s office is a piece of paper in a plastic pocket and he has written his own name on it. With a pen.

Agatha or Ainita knocks on the door, then opens it.

“Thank you, Anthea,” says Mycroft’s voice inside the room.

 _Anthea._ Greg is sure that he has never heard that name before, but he doesn’t give too much thought on it. Probably everyone there has an alias. Who knows, perhaps Mycroft’s name is actually Mark or Matthew or something ordinary like that.

Greg steps into the room. The hall leading to the office has been practically black, and if he compared Mycroft’s office to the corridor, the room is almost cosy. The room looks like if a panic room and a bunker had a baby. The walls are black, the desk and the chairs are black. The only colourful thing in there is the portrait of Elizabeth II. Greg isn’t an interior designer, but the black doesn’t make him feel any better. But the darkness is way better than all-white everything. White surfaces make him think of hospitals and the forensic science classes back in Police Staff College. Maybe he associates white with death, but the black room doesn’t really raise his passion for life either.

“Please, sit down,” Mycroft says. Greg pulls up the chair on his side of the desk and sits down.

“So...” he says, leading.

Mycroft says nothing, only leans back on his own chair and opens up a drawer and pulls out a binder. On the front, there is the GCHQ logo. Greg looks up to Mycroft, but Mycroft only pushes the binder closer to Greg and nods.

“What is this?” Greg asks before he dares to open the binder.

Mycroft rolls his eyes at him. “Something to make you sleep better.”

Greg doesn’t even ask how Mycroft knows how poorly he has slept last night. He opens up the binder and starts to read.

There is a picture of Sean Taylor, but under it says Leon Braddock. The picture looks to be the mere thing that matches what they had on him. The date and place of birth are different, parents are different, even his height is different. Greg reads on. Braddock was a former MI6 agent and had been working as a common intelligent agent since 2008.

“Shit,” Greg says. Mycroft looks at him over the desk. “So this is why there was nothing on Sean Taylor?” Greg asks and points at the text.

“Leon Braddock was an MI6 agent for roughly ten years,” Mycroft says. “After that, it was safest to get an alias and change his identity.”

“Right,” Greg says, “even though he continued in the same line of work?”

There is something like a smile on Mycroft’s face. “Not entirely.”

“Not entirely?”

Mycroft doesn’t clarify but proceeds to talk slightly off the topic. “In 2008, Braddock, then already going by the name of Taylor, was undercover. He got hired as a guard in Hay’s Galleria, as a specific Swedish woman, Anniken Johansson, was working in a shoe shop there.”

“Anniken Johansson? As in Anniken Taylor, Braddock’s wife?” Greg makes sure.

“The same person,” Mycroft admits. “And a six in the classification of terror threats.”

Greg laughs by accident. The entire thing sounded rather ridiculous. 

“Okay. So Braddock was undercover to, what, spy on Johansson?”

“Quite so,” Mycroft says. “And Braddock was an excellent agent. He was ready to go far. He married Johansson. As far as we know, Johansson never knew about his husband’s so-called double life, and she suspected nothing.”

Well, if that doesn’t sound familiar, Greg thought. “But Braddock is dead. Why?”

Mycroft crosses his hands in front of him on the table. “Braddock began to leak critical information to Belarus and Ukraine. Some that Braddock shouldn’t have known by his authority. We investigated it for years, and Braddock was first suspected in 2010. Braddock and Johansson had their honeymoon in Stockholm, but as they travelled there, they stopped in Minsk, even as there are straight flights from London to Stockholm. The confirmation came two months ago that Braddock is the leak we were searching for. The order to eliminate him came last week.”

“So?”

Mycroft smiles. “An MI6 agent killed Leon Braddock.”

“Bloody Torchwood,” Greg mutters. Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry?”

“Canary Wharf,” Greg starts, but stops himself and shakes his head. If Sally hadn’t got the joke, it would be rather impossible for Mycroft to get it.

“Ah,” Mycroft says. “Doomsday? Brilliant, but sadly no.”

Greg blinks for a moment. It takes Greg a moment to remember what they were talking about.

“Wait a minute,” he says, as his brain works too fast for him. “Sean Taylor—Braddock was found in the Thames. Why? I thought your agents were good at their jobs, and that seems like a lousy mistake for someone in the SIS.”

Mycroft smile disappears. “Yes. An excellent point we are trying to solve by the minute. Something has happened at some point, and we don’t know what. But as said before, we have removed the case of Leon Braddock or Sean Taylor from the Metropolitan Police Service.”

Greg rubs his face as he tried to think. “Then what happened to Anniken Johansson?”

Mycroft hums under his breath. “What, indeed.”

Greg looks at him. “Do you know?”

“I have a theory, yes,” Mycroft says.

“Does it have anything to do with this MI6 mess?” Greg asks. He needs to know, it has been nagging him for a day.

“Most likely no,” Mycroft says, “but of course I can’t be perfectly certain of it.”

“Damn,” Greg says.

“Now you know,” Mycroft says. “And I hope that in the future we can talk things out without you making angry phone calls in the middle of the night.”

Greg feels his face getting warm. “So you showed me that to give me an earful? Do I need to sign an NDA?”

“No,” Mycroft answers. “But I need your promise to not to talk to Sherlock about this.”

“Why?” Greg asks, he feels his pulse rising. Mycroft has given him that kind of orders before and the reasons have always been the same.

“My brother has been using lately and he is way too unstable to handle the government's business,” Mycroft says. “I have already elongated common rules for him, and he can not be trusted anything critical like this.” Mycroft voice is tight and sharp.

“Well, fuck,” Greg says and makes a mental note to go by Baker Street as soon as he is able to. He hasn’t seen John or Sherlock for a couple of weeks, and he suddenly feels bad about it. As if he hadn’t had the time.

*

After the meeting with Mycroft, Greg goes back to the station. He tries to concentrate on the case in hand, but he gives up quickly. He decides that out of the past 24 hours he has been working way too many of them. Greg leaves work early and doesn’t even feel guilty. Greg leaves the station and goes to his car. He’s hungry and tired, but his curiosity of what is happening in Baker Street overcomes the discomfort. And he knows himself; if he doesn’t go now, it could take him days and weeks to get it done. 

He drives straight to Baker Street but hesitates in front of the front door. He rarely visits Sherlock uninvited and without a case. And now he has _promised_ to not to tell Sherlock about the ongoing investigations. Greg hopes that Sherlock won’t ask about them, because Greg hates to lie. Lying makes him feel guilty and restless. 

Greg knocks the doorknocker, and after a minute Mrs Hudson opens the door for him.

“Greg,” Mrs Hudson squeals happily. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Hello,” Greg greets her. “Is Sherlock home?” he asks. 

“Yes, yes, come in,” Mrs Hudson says and makes room for Greg. Greg thanks her and takes the stairs up to Sherlock’s apartment. Both doors to the living room and to the kitchen are closed. Greg knocks on the door to the living door. It takes a moment before John sneaks into the hall. 

“Hi,” John says pleasantly surprised. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I just figured it would be a good idea to come to visit, as—” Greg’s sentence is cut short when a rumble from the other side of the living room door interrupts him. “Is there everything all right?”

John glances at the door. “Ah, yes. There is a client in there.”

“A client?” Greg asks.

“Yes.”

“Is that so? I thought—nevermind,” Greg says. 

“What?” John asks, he looks interested in what Greg has thought. 

“Well, you see, Mycroft said that Sherlock’s been using again,” Greg whispers so that Sherlock wouldn’t hear him. “I just wanted to come and see what the situation is.”

John looks at him with wide eyes. “It was weeks ago, at the time when the Moriarty thing happened.”

“It was two weeks ago,” Greg reminds him. “Anyway, how is he?”

“Sherlock? He’s fine,” John says and adds: “I think. He has clients, they keep him busy enough. Do you have a case for him?”

Greg shakes his head as a reply. 

“Pity,” John says shrugging. “You know what Sherlock’s like. He thinks most cases are too dull for him to solve, and he doesn’t accept half of the cases he’s given.”

To amplify John’s words, the living room door slams open, and a youngish woman steps out to the hallway as Sherlock’s voice accompanies her: “Come back when you have something _actually_ interesting!”

John smiles an apology to the woman, but she rushes to the stairs without looking back. John turns to look at Greg.

“So you speak with Mycroft?”

Greg frowns.

“Who talks with Mycroft?” asks Sherlock. He stands on the doorway and stares at Greg. Greg says nothing.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock blurts. “I hope you have something good for me.”

“I don’t,” Greg states, even if he wanted to say: _yes I do, but your brother has ordered me not to tell you, because you’re an unstable addict._ Sherlock huffs.

“What are you doing here then?”

Greg spreads his arms wide. “This is a social call. I am allowed those, am I?”

“You aren’t.”

Greg glances at John. John shrugs again.

“Do you want anything? Tea?” John asks, ignoring Sherlock.

“Sure, thanks,” Greg says and goes into the living room. He sits on the couch and looks around. Everything seems to be quite normal in there. John’s there, and all of Sherlock’s belongings are haphazardly all over the place. Sherlock is trotting around, and there seems to be some kind of experiment taking place in the kitchen, and John tries to move it aside to make room for the kettle.

When the kettle is boiled, John clears some place on the coffee table and serves the tea as if he was still living there. Greg would like to say something about it but keeps quiet. As usual, John asks if Greg takes milk or sugar with his tea, and as usual, Greg says no.

“Are you positive you have nothing?” Sherlock asks as he sits on his armchair by the fireplace.

“Yes,” Greg answers. Perhaps Sherlock is more impatient than usual, but it could be just because that’s who Sherlock is wired. Greg decides to change the topic off of his work and into Sherlock’s.

“What you’ve had lately?” he asks.

“One strange death,” John starts, but Sherlock interrupts him: “It was a boring and extremely obvious case.”

Greg ignores Sherlock. He has heard that if you wished to end unwanted behaviour, the best way to do it is to give it no attention. All attention, positive or negative, would merely strengthen the behaviour. Greg has tested that for years on end, but the result has been the contrary.

“How was it strange?” Greg asks.

“A man had drowned, but there was sand in his lungs,” John says.

“Boring,” Sherlock comments. John glances at Sherlock, and Greg notices how John squints at him, as if he tries to see clearer, but it hardly lasts for a second.

“Why you talk to Mycroft?” Sherlock asks Greg.

“It was for work,” Greg says because it is the truth.

“ _Aha_ ,” Sherlock huffs out supposedly hurt. “So you give your cases to Mycroft now?”

Greg drinks his tea. “No, I don’t,” he says after a moment.

“It’s because Mycroft has a power complex,” Sherlock says kicking his legs out straight. John tries to serve Sherlock tea, but Sherlock only grunts, so John goes back to the kitchen with the kettle.

“What is?” Greg asks. Sherlock waves his hands as if that was an answer enough.

“Everything,” Sherlock answers.

Greg doesn’t know what to say, so he uses his tea as an excuse and twirls it around his mouth as long as possible.

“All right,” Greg says just to say something. He has concluded that all is fine in there. Sure, John looks a bit confused and Sherlock is sulking, but that is ordinary for 221B Baker Street.

“How’s Mary?” Greg asks John. John beams at him.

“Big,” he grins.

“When the baby’s due?” Greg asks, even if he doesn’t care for babies. Of course, it is a big thing, John and Mary having a baby. Greg looks at Sherlock. He has expected some reaction from him as the conversation has changed into babies, but Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him or John at all. Sherlock has got out his smartphone and is typing something.

“Soon,” John says, “a few days here or there.”

Greg whistles. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks. It’s needed, I suppose,” John says to Greg, but his attention is shifted to Sherlock. Greg thinks it’s time for him to leave. He has eaten nothing, and the tea hasn’t helped with hunger much. And to be perfectly honest with himself, he doesn’t feel welcome in there. Sherlock has started to scoff at his phone and John is right there with him to examine the source of Sherlock’s dissatisfaction.

“So,” Greg says and coughs awkwardly. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he says. It’s a poor excuse, and it makes Sherlock sigh loudly and John to look up to him.

“Okay,” John says, “it was nice for you to drop by.”

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Text me when the baby’s born,” he says to John.

“As if it would go by unnoticed,” Sherlock murmurs without looking at Greg. “ _Goodbye,_ Lestrade.”

Greg waves goodbye as he leaves. On his way home he considers the combination of Sherlock and babies. He hasn’t realised the baby was due so soon, time has run by so quickly. Greg finds himself worried over Sherlock, and what John and Mary’s new family life would do to him. Sherlock isn’t known for his great adapting skills, and a baby if nothing else needs adapting.

*

The investigation of the murder of Anniken Taylor is a long one. It’s the fourth day and they haven’t gotten very far. Greg has tried to do something with the knowledge Mycroft has given him, but it hasn’t been useful. He doesn’t know how to share his knowledge with others. If Anniken Taylor’s murder has anything at all to do with terrorists or SIS, it will not be an outing in the park, far from it. Terrorists are clever, they have to be. Greg has been a detective long enough to know that terrorists mean the investigation can turn dirty very fast.

Greg thinks the investigation has begun dirty already and Taylors’ phones are a great example of that. His team together with the people from the labs have tried to get all the information available from the phones, but it has been a dead end. No one can explain where Anniken Taylor went on the day of her death. There are no traces on her phone’s GPS, she hasn’t used her credit card, nor has anybody seen her.

Greg has taken a break and gone outside. He needs fresh air and a moment of peace and quiet. The case has pissed off the whole department, and the atmosphere is miserable in there. Frustration does that, Greg knows that, but it doesn’t help with the impulse to give up. The fact that he knows more than anybody else has made him even more baffled. He doesn’t know if he even could talk to anyone about it. (Apart from Mycroft Holmes, but Mycroft Holmes isn’t on Greg’s list of people he would _like to_ talk to.)

Greg lights up a cigarette, there goes the fresh air he needed, and as he is putting his lighter back into his pocket, forensic officer Stella Hopkins steps out from the main doors. Stella is a fairly new officer working at Interpol. They have met each other for a few times over cases and other work business. A couple of years ago, when Stella was in training, they worked together in a case.

“Have you got a lighter?” Stella asks, pointing at her own cigarette. Greg lends his lighter to her. Stella thanks, lights her cigarette and gives the lighter back to Greg.

“I heard you’ve got a tricky one,” she says.

“You could say that,” Greg replies. “A few more days and the entire unit has grey hair. I think you know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Stella says. “This job can be such a pain in the ass.”

Greg lets out a laugh. “Yeah. What are you up to?”

Stella rolls her eyes. “Someone has dug out the Borgia Pearl case again. I’m here for that.”

“Good luck,” Greg wishes her. “Isn’t that one of those cases, that remains the same forever with no leads?”

“Yup,” Stella says. “I can only imagine what it would be like to get this case to an end.” She takes the last drag of her cigarette. “Thanks for the light. See you around,” she says and waves at him as she goes back inside.

Greg stays where he’s standing. He knows precisely what Stella has meant. There are quickly solved straightforward cases and then there are cases like the Borgia Pearl, that has been around for a decade and nothing has turned out of it. Greg hopes from the bottom of his heart this case turns out to be easier than it feels.

During the rest of the day, Greg and his team have made a wrap-up of everything they have learned so far. There is a whiteboard full of pictures from the scene of the crime, and various officers have drawn arrows and marked down important pieces. Sally has made a massive question mark over a picture of Sean Taylor, but it’s all they’ve done for that. The Chief Superintendent has made sure everybody realises that the case is over their power, so Greg’s team have kept their quiet about it. That’s something polices are great at: they can shut up about something if needed.

Greg stands in front of the whiteboard, searching for something they’d missed, something that would help them further. A language translator has transcribed the postcard from Swedish to English, but nothing important came out of it. It says: _Thank you for the Christmas card. Happy New Year, we hope to see you both at Easter._ Graphologist has confirmed Greg’s suspicion. The writer has started the letter T has as the letter J.

The gun that has been used to kill Anniken Taylor has been recognised and they have people looking for it, but the tracking is going on slowly. Greg sighs. They need to get all of her closest people into a hearing, and it’ll take time and resources, and it would only make the CS unhappy over money. There simply isn’t anything else he could do. A woman is killed, and it’s Greg’s job to find the killer and get them in front of a jury. Greg rubs his eyes as if it would help with the tiredness. He would love to call Sherlock and get him on it. There must be something Greg just doesn’t see, but what would take Sherlock thirty seconds to solve.

Fucking hell. The comprehending hits him hard. He knows exactly what he _could_ do, even if Sherlock is off-limits. He hates the idea, but it seems to be the only way to get something done. If the younger Holmes can’t be used, maybe the older one could help him out.

Greg knows well enough that Mycroft can do the deduction things as well as Sherlock. Maybe even better. Greg has learned it the hard way that Mycroft can and will tell things about him by simply looking at him. A couple of years ago, two weeks afterSherlock faked his death, Greg’s divorce was brand new. He had signed the papers the same day and happened to see Mycroft (thinking it back; the meeting was probably arranged and had something to do with Sherlock’s fake suicide), and Mycroft had just looked at Greg once. Mycroft had mentioned as in passing that Greg had divorced his now ex-wife. After all these years Greg has learned to not to ask _how_ exactly it was done, how a few glances at someone can make them just _know_. It’s beyond Greg’s intelligence, and he’s happy to admit it.

Greg takes out his phone and calls Mycroft. This time Mycroft answers after just one beep, and it surprises Greg so much he forgets to speak. He realises that he should have thought his words ahead. He knows what he needs to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it and not sound like a total prick.

“ _Afternoon_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Hello,” Greg says. He looks at the whiteboard as he speaks. “We have a problem and I believe you can help with it.”

“ _Is that so?_ ” Mycroft says. “ _What kind of problem would that be?_ ”

“Anniken fucking Johansson,” Greg says and pokes at the picture of her on the board. “Who killed her?”

Mycroft is silent for a long time. Greg has to check if the call is still ongoing. “ _And what could I do?_ ” The question has a tone that tells Greg his answer won’t be liked. He answers anyway.

“If I can’t have Sherlock on this case, maybe you could do the thing.”

“ _The thing_?”

“The deduction thing that we stupid and ordinary people can’t do. That thing.”

Greg thinks he hears a tiny laugh, but he could be wrong.

“ _Detective Inspector_ ,” Mycroft starts, his tone of voice amused and _soft_ , “you ordinary people could do it if you only tried.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Well, I’ve tried it for the past five days and I’ve got nothing. So could you help with this? I’d get you all the evidence, and you’d do your deductions and tell me if there is something I haven’t noticed.”

“ _Naturally,_ ” Mycroft says. “ _Very well. Come to the Diogenes Club in an hour. Bring everything you’ve got and maybe I can help you._ ”

“Thank you,” Greg lets out a sigh of relief. “See you then.”

It doesn’t surprise Greg when Mycroft ends the call without goodbyes. Greg checks the time, it’s five to four in the afternoon. He could go home and eat something before he’s expected at the Diogenes Club. He gathers everything they have on Anniken Taylor and leaves the station.

The Diogenes Club is in a big, white building made of stone. Greg uses the front door and as he goes around the club, he wonders if anything concerning Mycroft Holmes was just ordinary. Greg has been there some times before to meet Mycroft, usually to discuss Sherlock. Greg has known that the place is there, but without the involvement of Mycroft, he would have never stepped inside. He’s not gentleman enough.

The place is flamboyant with high ceilings and ornamented windows. There are chandeliers and decorative half panels on the walls. For Greg, it’s too much. He walks past the quiet room and straight to Mycroft’s office. He knocks on the door, and Mycroft opens it for him and nods to welcome Greg into the room.

The room is as posh as everything else in there. The contrast between this room and the office at Whitehall is remarkable. At Whitehall, the room is minimalistic and dark, but this room is showy, full of light and a bit dramatic. There are big bookcases full of ornamental books in straight rows there, and even the flower pots look grand. In the middle of the room, there are two leather armchairs and a tiny round side table next to both of them.

“I have little time,” Mycroft says and mentions Greg to sit down. Greg takes an armchair, and Mycroft goes to the other side of the room. He pours two glasses of brandy and offers the other one to Greg. Greg doesn’t know what to do with it, so he places the class on the tiny table. He takes out all the documents he has brought with him from his office and gives them to Mycroft. Mycroft sits down and looks at the first page over his glass of brandy.

“Let’s hope this doesn’t take long then,” Greg says.

Mycroft goes through the papers, and Greg waits. He doesn’t know what else he should do, so he takes a sip of the brandy. He will not drink the class empty as he’s driving, but he wants to taste it. Greg doesn’t know much about brandy, but he assumes it is old and expensive and from Chile or France or wherever you can get old and expensive brandy from. Greg prefers beer for sure. Every now and then he might drink a glass of whisky, but not as often as before. He’s too old for that. And too poor for _this_.

Mycroft takes his time with the documents. Greg has no idea what to do with his hands, and he thinks scrolling through his phone would be tacky in this company and place. So he just sits there awkwardly and waits. The whole situation, the too flashy place and the investigations have made him feel uneasy. He has a nasty habit of raising his shoulders to his ears when he’s stressed, and it makes his muscles tense. His week at work has been a pile of cumulative stress.

“Hm,” Mycroft finally says, after he has gone through everything Greg has brought him. It has taken more time than expected. “One thing is sure. This has nothing to do with Braddock.”

Greg’s eyes meet Mycroft’s. “How sure?”

“One hundred per cent,” Mycroft says and closes up the documents. “Johansson has been shot with a different gun, and even though the killer has been standing straight in front of her, the shot isn’t precise. It’s mostly bad luck that she’s dead. A shot to the abdomen isn’t always fatal, as you would know. Although in this case the bullet has hit her liver, and she has suffered major blood loss.”

Greg doesn’t ask how Mycroft knows about the time he got shot back in the 90s. He was lucky the bullet came from an awkward angle and didn’t hit any vital organs, and he got into surgery very fast. He has a faint scar as a memory.

“So it has _nothing_ to do with Braddock?” Greg asks.

“Only a few people knew what Braddock had done. If this was by any European terrorist organisation, the gunshot wouldn’t be this sloppy. I believe it has been done by a civilian,” Mycroft says. “What there anything in the bedroom?”

Greg has to think for a moment. It was several days ago. “Nothing special. There were some moisturising cream and condoms in a drawer of the bedside table.”

“Johansson had an IUD,” Mycroft states. “It’s said in the autopsy report.”

“And?” Greg asks. Mycroft leans towards Greg and gives the documents back to him. Greg takes them and looks at them as if they would tell him what Mycroft was withholding from him.

“Why would a married couple have condoms, if she’d used a contraceptive with a failure rate of under one per cent?” Mycroft asks as he stands up. He takes his class from the side table and takes it back to the back of the room.

“She had an affair?” Greg asks.

“Yes. You’re looking for a woman,” Mycroft says, comes back and sits down again. “The killer is short, shorter than Johansson. The bullet’s angle was almost straight. It’s a woman.”

“Or a short man?” Greg suggests unsurely.

“Doubtful,” Mycroft says. His tone is the same Sherlock uses in those situations, when something is crystal clear for him but unclear for everyone else. “Johansson has cheated on Braddock with another man, hence the condoms. His partner has found out and shot Johansson.”

“Jesus,” Greg mutters.

“Yes, it is quite horrible, but jealousy is one of the most common reasons for homicide,” Mycroft says. Greg grins.

“I meant the deductions, but whatever,” Greg says. “You two make me furious.”

“It’s quite simple,” Mycroft says.

“For you, maybe,” Greg says. He has gotten everything he came for. He stands up to leave. “What do I owe you, if you’re right?”

“ _When_ I’m right,” Mycroft corrects him. Greg ignores it. “We’ll figure something out, I assure.”

“Okay,” Greg says. “Thank you for this. I’ll get back to you. _If_ you’re right, that is,” he adds, just to piss Mycroft off. Mycroft only looks at him, but the look has that kind of annoyance in it that Greg has been aiming for.

“You should start searching for the killer at Johansson’s office,” Mycroft says.

“And how did you deduce that? By the brand of condoms?” Greg asks.

“No,” Mycroft dead-pants. “If you look at the statistics, people who have a habit of cheating, usually find their partners from work,” he says and after a quick pause he adds: “As you know.”

It’s been three years, and yet Mycroft’s comment makes Greg feel some old and bitter anger. He doesn’t want to hear those kinds of remarks, especially not from Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft probably knew months, if not years before Greg, how Cora cheated on him. Greg didn’t know he was this bitter after three years, but apparently Mycroft had touched a nerve.

“Right,” Greg says. “Anyway, thank you and goodbye.”

Greg turns and goes to the door. He’s already half out of the door, when Mycroft’s voice says: “See you, Inspector.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, guys. thank you so much for the feedback, I've been quite overwhelmed these past few days. :') I'm so excited to share the rest of this story with you, you have no idea! so, here's chapter two. it has one of my favourite scenes in it, and just so you know, if I did chapter names, this one would be called Red Herrings. c; I promise there is A Case in there somewhere.

As it turns out Mycroft has been right about the killer. Greg has to admit to himself he never actually doubted it. Fucking Holmes’s. It took them two days to find out who Anniken Taylor had an affair with, and, as Mycroft has thought, he was a workmate of hers. A couple of hours later they located the killer. Diana Jones told them everything right away. She has not been a pretty sight as she confessed while crying like a baby, snot on her face and all.

Greg is somewhat disappointed with the outcome. After all the SIS and agent stuff, he has thought (expected?) that this case would be part of something bigger, more significant. Instead of that, they have gotten themselves a hysterical woman who has killed out of jealousy. Nevertheless, he has to admit it’s nice to close the case and archive it. The thing Greg hates the most is unsolved cases, they haunt him, and that has made it easier for him to ask for Sherlock’s help. For as long as he has been working at the Met, he has had a principal: he won’t take work home with him. But every unsolved case makes it hard to keep up with the decision. If he just took a glimpse at it at home, maybe he’ll find something he has missed.

Now that he lives by himself, there is no one to see what he does or doesn’t do, and it’s easier to continue to work at home. It’s a nasty habit he should get rid of, but it has been proven before that he’s bad at quitting anything he should.

It has been a few days since he got to close the Anniken Taylor case, and the past days have been quiet and tedious. He is sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee when his phone rings. It’s Sherlock calling him, so Greg takes his time before he takes the call.

“ _Lestrade_ ,” Sherlock says, without a hello, “ _come quickly!_ ”

“What is it?” Greg asks.

“ _Come now, this is very important_ ,” Sherlock answers enthusiastically. The thing is, if Sherlock sounded at all concerned or serious, Greg would be out of the door already. But Sherlock is _snickering_. It makes Greg feel tired and ancient.

“What have you taken?” he asks.

“ _What_?” Sherlock scoffs. “ _Nothing. Come on, now. I’ll text you the address. I have a suspect and you have to come and arrest it. I mean him._ ”

Greg takes a breath. The situation doesn’t sound serious at all, but he’ll humour Sherlock. He doesn’t have anything else to do, and he doesn’t want to deal with Sherlock when he feels like he hasn’t been taken seriously.

“All right, fine, I’ll come,” Greg says.

“ _Thank you, Gordon_.”

“Greg.”

“ _Whatever. We’ll wait for you in here_ ,” Sherlock says and ends the call. Greg stares into his coffee mug, then he leaves. For a while, he wonders if he should take Sally with him, but chooses to go alone. He’d summon her if it turns out to be something he can’t handle alone.

The address Sherlock texts him is for the London Aquarium. That alone makes Greg question the importance and the urgency of the call; there has been nothing eerie happening at the Aquarium, as far as Greg knows. Besides, Sherlock’s giggling isn’t exactly withdrawing Greg’s suspicion.

Greg meets John outside the Aquarium entrance, and John leads him in. Greg shows his badge to guards and guides as they pass them.

“What the hell am I doing here, exactly?” Greg asks as they go through the Aquarium.

“We had a client,” John tells him. They take the lift downstairs and move forward. Greg has last been there six years ago, when his god-daughter, Ellie, was younger and wanted to go see the fishes and sharks for her eighth birthday. The visit was an experience, as a shark that swam just past her had scared her. She was teary-eyed and grumpy for the rest of the trip. Greg tells the story every time he visits her for her birthday. Ellie is turning fourteen next, and she has found the story embarrassing for a couple of years already, as teenagers do. 

“So this woman came to Sherlock and told him she’s under a threat. That someone was spying on her and trying to get her killed,” John says as they go through the Ocean Tunnel.

“Okay,” Greg says, he still doesn’t understand what they were doing there.

“She was certain someone had required an assassin to follow her. She was quite afraid, and she had to go live with her sister. It didn’t help, though.”

“So, was there an assassin?” Greg asks, wondering if they will ever stop walking.

John starts to giggle. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Why _here_?”

“Sherlock did his thing, and so it emerged that the first time she had noticed something strange happening, was when she came here with her grandchildren,” John says. They go past so many different kinds of fishes, Greg doesn’t even try to keep track.

Sherlock is waiting for them in front of a round window. There are light red jellyfishes with long frilly tails in the tank, swimming back and forth as a bright light behind them makes the water a vibrant shade of dark blue.

“Afternoon, Inspector,” Sherlock says, he has a sinister grin on his face. Greg has a bad feeling about is.

“So, let’s hear it, then,” Greg says impatiently. “What’s going on?”

“Well, Lestrade, you see,” Sherlock begins, “old women tend to have the strongest imagination out of all the age groups, it seems. But Mrs Clarke was right about something. There has, indeed, been a shadow following her.”

John clears his throat, facing away from Sherlock.

“Let’s demonstrate this. Lestrade, stand here,” Sherlock says, grabs Greg by the shoulders and pushes him so he is standing in front of the jellyfish tank. Then Sherlock spins him around. Greg stands there with his back turned to the fishes.

“Now,” Sherlock says, “let’s pretend you’re an old lady. You are five inches shorter, so about that high.” Sherlock has his arm at the destined height. “Imagine you have four grandchildren with you, and you try to look at them and the fishes at the same time. You’re concentrating on everything and nothing at the same time. And suddenly something happens.”

“What?” Greg asks.

“Behind you, a jellyfish moves. Just the right time to the right way and the light coming from the tank regenerated an optical illusion. It’s quite simple, actually. Jellyfishes are almost transparent, but if you have, let’s say, two of them moving past the light at the correct angle and at the same time, they cast a shadow,” Sherlock explains. Greg turns to look at the jellyfishes behind him. It takes a moment for him to catch on.

“Are you kidding me?” Greg asks.

“Of course not,” Sherlock says, “this is _serious_. Who would have thought poor Mrs Clarke was absolutely right. Something was hiding in the shadows, or to be frank, there was a shadow.”

“No assassin, then,” Greg says. 

“No,” Sherlock admits. “Funny how the human mind functions. Something startles you, and before you know, your mind has created a whole scenario. You hear a sound in the dark; it must be a burglar. There is a rattle in the forest; it must be a cougar. Human beings can be _so_ primitive at times. And if you tend towards anxiety, it can get worse. It’s called catastrophic thinking. It’s simpler for the mind to come to the worst possible conclusion before anything has even happened. Anyway, talking of conclusions, Lestrade, arrest this jellyfish!”

John doesn’t even try to hide his snort. Greg has to count slowly from one to twenty.

“You’re a lunatic,” he says. “Did you two seriously get me to show up here for _this_?”

“So you’re not going to do it?” John asks. “Pity. I would have loved to see how you tried to interrogate it. Or put handcuffs on it.”

“I hate you both,” Greg says. “Next time you call me, make sure you have something good. I’m not that stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” says Sherlock and: “You sound like Sherlock,” says John at the same time.

“You better not to say that in your blog,” Greg mutters.

“What, why? It would make you seem cleverer,” Sherlock says, more like fucks around.

Greg is done. But he has to admit it’s a little bit funny. “Some poor lady has been scared for her life, and you two are here giggling like two 13-years-old kids. Good job, boys,” Greg says.

“Don’t be so dramatic, she’s _fine,_ ” Sherlock groans.

“And you two need to read the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” Greg says, as Sherlock and John continue to snicker.

The following morning Greg gets a message from John. The earlier jellyfish incident is forgotten, when Greg reads the text. John tells that Mary has given birth to a healthy baby girl. There is also the baby’s height and weight, which hold information Greg doesn’t need. He congratulates both new parents, even if he worries about what will happen now, and how the new family member will affect life at Baker Street. The child doesn’t even live at 221B Baker Street, but Greg is sure that she’ll have more impact there than in her actual home. John probably can’t come by as frequently as before and that troubles Greg the most.

Through the years of knowing Sherlock, a new kind of worry has nested in him. Sometimes he’s not even sure if he likes Sherlock very much, but even if he didn’t, he worries. He wants only the best for him, even if he could be a piece of work. Greg knows Sherlock won’t easily accept help or company, but maybe Greg should try to offer his.

*

It has been a quiet week at Scotland Yard. Greg has paperwork to do, but that’s as exciting as it gets. At this moment he likes it, both the quiet and the simple work. Some days they make him insane, and he’d pace around his office, waiting for _something_ to happen. He hopes he’ll get to go home early. Maybe he will even cook. It has been weeks since he has eaten a meal he has made himself. It’s already the end of January, the entire month has gone by rather quickly. It’s weird how time works. Weeks and months fly by and yet the afternoons and nights alone in his apartment go on forever. Maybe it’s because he’s old, and the only action he gets outside of work comes through the television screen. 

The phone on Greg’s office desk rings. The first thought in Greg’s mind is painted with vexation, he has hoped the week would proceed as quiet and calm that it has been so far. When he notices the name of _M. Holmes_ on the phone screen, the feeling changes to confusion. What would Mycroft need from him?

“ _Good afternoon, Inspector,_ ” Mycroft says as Greg picks up. Greg sighs internally, wondering if the Holmes’ brothers would ever learn to use his first name. 

“Hello,” Greg says much more informally. 

“ _If I recall right, you have founded the woman who killed Anniken Johansson?_ ” Mycroft disguises the statement to a question. “ _And therefore you owe me._ ”

Greg sits up straighter. He has forgotten that altogether and regrets those words ever left his mouth.

“Yes?” Greg asks hesitantly.

“ _Dr Watson and Mrs Watson have had a baby,_ ” Mycroft says as if Greg didn’t know that. 

“They did, yes,” Greg says, “a few days ago.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says. It sounds like he’s multitasking, Greg can hear a rustling noise. “ _Could you do me a favour and check on Sherlock?_ ”

“Sure,” Greg says relieved, the task given to him isn’t too hard to do. “I was actually thinking that myself.”

“ _Good_ ,” Mycroft says and sounds as relieved as Greg feels. “ _I’d go myself but I’m unfortunately prevented.”_

“Yeah?” Greg asks without thinking. He is, after all, a decent guy and he will ask questions to be nice. Even if it’s Mycroft.

“ _I’m out of the country,_ ” Mycroft says reluctantly. “ _I’m in Slovenia.”_

“Slovenia?”

“ _Yes. It’s a country in Central Europe, and a member nation of NATO, the European Union and United Nations—”_

“I know what a Slovenia is,” Greg laughs. “What are you doing there?”

“ _Business_ ,” Mycroft answers loud and clear, the tone implying that will be the only answer Greg would get. 

“Right,” Greg placates. “You probably want me to report back to you how Sherlock’s doing?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft replies straightly. 

“Okay.”

“ _At two in the afternoon next Monday_ ,” Mycroft adds.

“Sorry, what?”

“ _It’s past lunchtime, but it should suit you, too_ ,” Mycroft continues. “ _Come to Whitehall. I should be back in England by that. Now, if you excuse me, I have to rush. Thank you, Inspector, for doing this_.”

“No problem.”

“ _See you on Monday, then,_ ” Mycroft says and ends the call. 

As soon as Greg’s shift is over, he drives to Baker Street. He swings the doorknocker, and Mrs Hudson opens the door at once. She lets Greg in and hustles around him for a while, complains how he looks tired and too pale. She says Greg should get a haircut, and that’s the cue for Greg to go upstairs.

The door to the living room is open, Greg peeks into the room. Sherlock is sitting on his armchair, focusing on the phone in his hands. Phone screen sheds pale white light and deep shadows at Sherlock’s face. The lights aren’t on, and the midwinter afternoon's dusk has made the room dark.

Greg switches the ceiling lights on, and Sherlock looks up to him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says. “I don’t have time for you.” He continues to type on his phone. He has got no clothes on, just a bathrobe. His bare feet are resting on the opposite armchair. John’s now-empty armchair.

“Is that so?” Greg asks and steps into the room. Sherlock doesn’t tell him no, so Greg takes his time as he looks around. He starts to move things around somewhat casually. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for. Cigarettes, ash, drugs, some clues. Greg knows that Sherlock wouldn’t be that sloppy to leave drugs to lie around in the living room table, but Greg can’t be too sure when it comes to Sherlock. He accidentally knocks over a mug, and cold tea spills on the table.

“You won’t find anything,” Sherlock sing-songs, but doesn’t look up from his phone. “Who sent you? John?”

“No one sent me,” Greg lies.

“Ugh,” Sherlock grunts. “It was Mycroft, wasn’t it? Why do you talk with _Mycroft_ , I don’t get it?”

“For a genius, you get barely anything,” Greg says. Sherlock scoffs and Greg adds: “Your brother worries.”

“Ah, yes, but not enough to come himself,” Sherlock notes. “So, he sent you instead.”

Greg steps over Sherlock’s stretched legs and turns over the skull on the mantelpiece. There’s nothing in there.

“Well,” Greg says, kicks Sherlock’s feet off the second armchair and sits down. “What is it like?”

“What?” Sherlock asks as his phone beeps and vibrates.

“The baby,” Greg clarifies.

Sherlock faces Greg and knits his brows as if he only now realised Greg was sitting there.

“It’s a baby,” Sherlock responds.

“Has John even let you hold her yet?” Greg teases. Sherlock makes a face.

“Why would I want to hold a baby?”

Greg sighs. Sherlock’s being difficult on purpose. Greg doesn’t mention it, he thinks it might be because of the baby.

“So what have you’ve been doing since John and Mary are busy with the baby?” Greg asks. That’s what Mycroft wants to know, he won’t care has Sherlock hold the baby or not.

“What I do normally,” Sherlock answers, puts his phone down and stands up suddenly. He takes his laptop from the table, balances it on his arm and types something with his free hand.

“Look at this,” Sherlock says and sets the device on Greg’s lap. “What do you think of this?”

There is a case open on the screen, but it’s already solved. Sherlock has used some ridiculous deduction techniques.

“Looks good,” Greg says.

“The case,” Sherlock says and pokes the screen. “There is something wrong with it.”

“Is there?” Greg asks, doubting. But he reads the file. It looks absurd enough for Sherlock, so that much is normal. There have been only a few clues, but Sherlock has solved the case using those. Greg feels a bit hurt that DI Dimmock has made the arrest, not him.

“It looks fine,” Greg says.

“I thought that too at first,” Sherlock says. “But if you look closer, it’s clearly made for me.”

Greg stops. “Moriarty style?” It makes his blood run cold when he remembers that time when a child’s voice had counted seconds, and they had all known she had had explosives tied on her.

“Not Moriarty,” Sherlock says, “more like Mycroft.”

The memory dies quickly, and Greg can’t suppress his laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” Sherlock pressures.

“Mycroft’s in Slovenia,” Greg informs him. Then realises what Sherlock has been doing and curses in his mind.

“Ha!” Sherlock yells and takes the laptop from Greg. “I knew it. You know disgustingly much about my brother’s whereabouts. Why did he tell _you_? He told _me_ he has some dull but necessary business he must do abroad because the Prime Minister has asked him to.”

“It just came up,” Greg shrugs.

“Nothing ever just _comes up_ with Mycroft. He wants to tell you things.”

There is no time for Greg to answer. Mrs Hudson saves him the trouble as she comes to the door with a tray.

“I made some tea,” she says and puts the tray on the kitchen table. She comes to the living room and starts to dust. “It’s nice to have visitors, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, he’s already found something more interesting from his computer.

“It has been quiet in here after the baby was born,” Mrs Hudson says to Greg. “Have you seen her yet? We should go there again, Sherlock should come too, he’s only been there once,” she rambles on.

Greg gives her a slight smile. “I don’t really care for babies.”

“Oh.” Mrs Hudson doesn’t try to hide her disappointment. “Is that why you don’t have children of your own?”

“Lestrade doesn’t have children because he is a workaholic and brings work home with him. He values his work more than anything. Also, his ex-wife cheated on him with two different people. And even if statistically parenting problems are one of the most common reasons for divorces in the UK, Lestrade didn’t need children to wreck his marriage,” Sherlock says still looking at his phone.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Greg says dryly, but not bitterly. Who’s he to deny the facts? His grounds for divorce was adultery, and it was pretty easily proven, as Cora was ready to admit she has had partners outside of their marriage.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Mrs Hudson says.

Greg snorts. “Nah. Sherlock’s right. I don’t have time for kids,” he says, but it’s only half the truth.

There has never been a time in Greg’s life when he would have wanted to become a father. Cora had wanted kids when they first started dating, but before they knew it, they were over forty, and neither of them had felt the urge to have kids. Greg is rather happy they hadn’t had children. Divorce is bad enough with only two people involved. Adding children to the mix would have been a terrible idea. Besides, Greg has two nephews and a god-daughter, and having them in his life has been enough for him. Maggie’s, his sister’s, twin boys are turning twenty, and Greg has enjoyed being an uncle. But those two rascals have made sure he won’t want kids of his own.

Mrs Hudson goes back downstairs, and Greg goes to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea. It’s just an excuse to look around. The kitchen is messy, which is normal. There are newspapers, a microscope and empty plates on the table. Greg doesn’t open the fridge, he has seen too many absurd things in there before. He has some instinct for self-preservation.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouts when Greg starts to move things around on the table. “ _What_ do you want? A urine sample?”

“Yes, thank you,” Greg says seriously. Sherlock sighs dramatically and points to the direction of his bedroom.

“The door’s open, you can go in,” he says.

Greg thanks him and goes into the room. He goes through the cabinets, drawers, bookshelves. He lays on the floor and uses his phone's flashlight to see under the bed. He puts his hand between the mattresses and lifts the pillows and blankets. When he’s sure there is nothing there, he goes back to the kitchen.

“Happy?” Sherlock asks behind his laptop.

“Yes,” Greg says. “You realise that—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupts him, “worry and sentiment, etcetera, etcetera. You can go now.”

“All right.”

“And tell Mycroft he needs to stop intervening,” Sherlock adds grumpily. “I’m tired of his _sentiment._ ”

Greg doesn’t bother to tell Sherlock how worthless it would be for Greg to change Mycroft's mind.

*

The following Monday Greg drives from the station to Whitehall. It’s ten to two, he’s somewhat early, but he uses his time well. He stands on the pavement, smokes and scrolls through the news on his phone. The title _Joshua Roger on missing sister: She has always been too nice_ makes Greg choke on his saliva. Tabloids have been joyriding with this for the past few days. A reality TV star Joshua Roger’s little sister, Jacqueline, has gone missing, and the case has landed on Greg’s team. He had tried to get Dimmock on it, but he has something else going on, so Greg’s left with this slightly too public case. Tabloids have made the whole investigation look bad, only because they’ve been following the guidelines they have been given for situations like this. Usually, Greg avoids news about his cases, but when a twenty-something young and handsome lad is having an overt breakdown on every media platform, it’s impossible to not to see any of it.

Greg puts his phone back to his jacket pocket in irritation and throws the cigarette butt on the ground. He turns to the building and finds the door he had used the last time there. There is a button with _press here_ , so Greg does as he’s told. In seconds, Anthea is smiling to him at the doorway.

“Good day, sir,” she says and lets Greg in. She takes Greg to Mycroft’s office and on the way down Greg ponders if it really is a bunker disguised as an office, not the other way round. Or perhaps Mycroft just finds it comfortable there.

“Ah, Inspector,” Mycroft says as Anthea has closed the door behind him. “Sit down.”

Greg takes the chair and looks at the framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth. He realises, for his horror, that it might actually be an original painting, worth thousands of pounds. It’s ridiculous to him. When Mycroft looks at him with a wondering expression, Greg clears his throat and tries to concentrate on the matter in question.

“I’m glad you had the time to come down here,” Mycroft says. 

Greg squints at him. “If I didn’t, you would’ve probably made me have time.”

Mycroft gives him a half-smile. “Naturally,” he says and crosses his hands on the table. “Without further ado. Sherlock.”

“Sherlock is Sherlock,” Greg says as he doesn’t know what else to say. To him, Sherlock had been his usual self.

“In the context of my brother that could mean anything,” Mycroft says slowly, leading. Greg shrugs.

“No drugs, but he has cases coming from left and right. Mrs Hudson is looking after him. Apparently, he has seen the baby only once, but it’s early days so who knows if that is anything important. Otherwise, it seems like he’s fine,” Greg lists on. “And he asked me to tell you he’s tired of your sentiment and wishes you would stop intervening, his words not mine. But I guess that doesn’t make a big difference either way,” Greg adds.

“No, it does not,” Mycroft admits. “How would you evaluate the new life situation of Dr Watson and Mrs Watson effects Sherlock?”

“I don’t know,” Greg says, “but I think he’s fine. Drowning in work, sure, and maybe it’s some kind of coping mechanism of his. I wouldn’t be too worried since work is the best option.”

Mycroft makes a _hmm_ noise. He seems a bit absent-minded, but Greg’s too much of a chicken to ask about it. They’re not _friends_ exactly, more like acquaintances. They have met occasionally over the past ten years, but there were those two years in between when Greg didn’t hear anything from him, and ninety per cent of those meetings they’ve had, they’ve discussed Sherlock. Greg isn’t sure if they would acknowledge each other if met in a bank or Tesco. Actually, scratch that, Greg thinks, Mycroft probably doesn’t go to Tesco, like ever.

“Sherlock is very sensitive to changes,” Mycroft says, and there is that obvious reluctance in his words again as if he doesn’t want to say anything. “He gets impulsive.”

“I’ve noticed,” Greg replies. He has known Sherlock for years, and that time been quite an experience on impulsivity. The first few months of knowing and not-quite-knowing Sherlock were the hardest ones. Greg had known right away that Sherlock Holmes was something else. _Clever_ wasn’t a strong enough word for it. Back then Sherlock had already been incredible, arrogant and difficult, but he was also full of youth and unused brain activity. He couldn’t focus on anything for more than a few minutes, and he snapped _fast_.

It was six or so months after their first case together, when Greg had first learned Sherlock had a drug problem. He hadn’t been surprised, he was, after all, a police officer; he had seen those functioning addicts before. That time he hadn’t seen Sherlock for a few weeks, and he had a case he wanted to show him. When he had shown up at Sherlock’s tiny studio apartment, there had only been Mycroft there. It was one of the first times he met Mycroft, and it went badly. Mycroft had been ten times more difficult than Sherlock ever had been. It was like talking to a brick wall, that little he got out of Mycroft. It had been awkward to stand in someone else’s house with a stranger he had met once or twice before, and whom he knew nothing of. When Sherlock had come home, high as a kite and bloody-nosed after some back-alley fight, he had babbled nonsense about trespassing and them suffocating him when he just tried to live his life. There had been a quarrel between Sherlock and Mycroft, and only then had Greg realised they were brothers. The fact that Sherlock, a drug user who wandered around crime scenes only to have something to do, and Mycroft, who looked like he had come back from the Buckingham Palace where he had had afternoon tea with the Queen, were related, was so unbelievable to Greg.

He still struggles with that for time to time.

“I think he’s taking it quite well,” Greg says then. “Or as good as Sherlock ever takes anything.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, John and Mary getting married didn’t affect as much as we thought,” Greg reminds him. They have had a similar conversation back then as well, only on the phone. Mycroft had been worried how this unfamiliar circumstance would make Sherlock react, and Greg had assured him over and over again that getting married didn’t actually change anything. It was the divorce that tore people and friendships apart.

Mycroft agrees with a hum, but there is a worried crinkle between his brows. Greg feels awkward. If Mycroft was literally anyone else, Greg would know what to say, how to make the situation less unsettling for him. But it’s Mycroft, and Greg is a stupid man who sometimes doesn’t know how to act. He speaks before he can think better of it.

“Should _I_ be worried about _you_?” He means it as a joke, he really does, but Mycroft looks at him with such astonishment, it makes Greg feel even more awkward. Mycroft takes an entire minute to pull himself back together.

“By no means,” Mycroft answers with the calmest voice, the one that makes Greg want to punch him. And then Mycroft says: “I think we’re done here now, Inspector. Thank you for your evaluation, it has helped me quite a bit.”

If Greg felt awkward before, he felt even more so now. He’s usually good with people, for heaven’s sake, it’s his job. It is in Greg’s nature to try and understand other people and he thinks of himself as an emphatic person. It’s one of the things that make him a good detective. He cares and he tries to understand. But as it seems, not even his understanding is enough to get through the wall between Mycroft and the rest of the world. Greg’s quite sure Mycroft does it—builds a wall—on purpose, but that doesn’t mean Greg would like to try harder. He stands up. He is ready to leave anyway.

*

The case gets messy. They find Jacqueline Roger’s dead body from a pond in Epping Forest. And then the shitstorm starts. The newspapers’ front pages have her picture and bold letters next to it stating _Jacky Roger Found Dead,_ and suddenly there are thirty people they have to hear since everyone is positive they’ve seen something.

And then the confessions start. Four people claim to have killed her. They are in a crossfire of misleading eyewitnesses and confessions. The 72 hours of pretrial detention isn’t enough time for them to get something done. And above it all, the media is doubting the police, as they do every time a public investigation like this takes more than a week.

Greg needs a full afternoon to decide to call Sherlock. He considers the cons and pros of having him on the case. He knows that getting Sherlock would only escalate the publicity, but Greg needs him. Badly. 

Sherlock answers after the third beep.

“ _Lestrade_ ”, Sherlock greets him and continues with a bored tone, “ _you need my help._ ”

“Yes, I bloody well do,” Greg admits. “This case, you’ve probably seen it in the news.”

“ _Actually, I haven’t_ ,” Sherlock says.

“You know, you probably should watch the news sometimes,” Greg says, off-topic, before he summaries the case. “Anyway, a woman is killed. We have four confessions from four different people, over thirty witnesses and nothing adds up.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Sherlock says. “ _Fame._ ”

“Yeah,” Greg sighs. “You coming?”

“ _Sounds boring_ ,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“ _I have a much more interesting case in hand. An old man has gone missing and oh, you couldn’t even guess how good it gets. This is the best thing I’ve had in months, Lestrade,_ months _. You can do your case on your own, I have better things to do,_ ” Sherlock rambles on.

“You don’t even know the whole case,” Greg tries, but Sherlock ends the call before his sentence is over.

“Shit,” Greg mutters to himself, takes the phone off his ear and calls another number. He rotates a pen around his middle finger as he listens to the beeps. He had learned the trick when he first started in the force. The DI back then used to do it, and the 23-years-old Greg had thought it was the coolest thing. It’s not that cool, but doing something with his hands helps him to concentrate.

Finally, there is an answer from the other line of the call.

“ _Yes?_ ” Mycroft’s voice is tight and there are other voices in the back.

“Bad time?” Greg asks.

“ _Only a little,_ ” Mycroft says.

“Okay, well, look,” Greg stumbles with his words, as he tries to figure out the best way to phrase it. “Sherlock turned down a case.”

There is a silence, and it goes on and on.

“ _What case?_ ” Mycroft asks then.

“Don’t either of you read any papers?” Greg asks. “This goddamn case we’ve been trying to solve for over a week, and every tabloid magazine has written how the Met gets nothing done, and DI Lestrade is the worst one of all. That case.” He exaggerates it, but only a little.

“ _Ah, I understand_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Should I be worried or..?” The pen drops between his fingers and rolls off the table. Greg leaves it there.

“ _I’ll get back to you,_ ” Mycroft says and ends the call.

Greg sighs and rubs his palm over his face. The stress has made his shoulders so tight he can almost feel the blood flow stopping just before his brains. He has four more people to hear, and he needs to get himself into work mode so that the far-fetched witness statements don’t make him blow up before the end of his shift.

Out of those four people one has been out of the country for two weeks, one blames the Queen, and two have no idea what they’re supposed to be talking about. Greg gets through the hearings solely by the power of caffeine. By the end of the day, he is more than ready to go home and numb his brain with some night-time television. Yet again his shift has extended out to be longer than it should have been, and it’s already dark behind the windows. And yet again he has gathered himself a binder full of pictures from the place where they’ve found Jacqueline Roger and several scripts of the most reliable witness report.

Greg leaves from the back door of the building. There has been journalists and reporters on the front door of Scotland Yard for days, trying to get a statement from everyone and anyone. He zips his parka up to his chin, goes through the pockets, finds the crumpled pack of cigarettes, puts one between his lips and lights it up. In the yellow light of a lamppost, he can see feeble snowflakes. The wind gets a hold of them and makes them circle in the light. As Greg watches the airy snowfall, a car inches closer on the road and stops a few yards away. Greg recognises the car but does nothing to move. He smokes and shivers in the cold.

Nothing happens. Greg looks at the car.

And nothing happens.

Until the back door of the car opens and Mycroft gets out. He wears a wool coat over his suit, and Greg finds it amusing how similar the coat is style-wise to the one Sherlock wears. Only that Sherlock’s coat looks like Sherlock, and Mycroft’s coat looks _expensive._

“Evening,” Greg says. Mycroft dawdles. He takes a cigarette case and a silver lighter out of his coats inside pocket, chooses a cigarette, and Greg has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at him. Greg feels almost sorry for the driver who has to experience this dragging.

“Sherlock takes the case,” Mycroft says after he’s done lingering.

Greg raises his eyebrows at him. “Does he now?” The wind blows snowflakes down his jacket collar, onto his neck.

“Yes,” Mycroft says.

“What did you do?”

“Persuaded him.” Mycroft’s tone indicates it would be something anybody could do.

“You _persuaded_ Sherlock?” Greg asks the doubt is clear in his voice.

The smile Mycroft gives him makes him feel stupid and little. He hates it.

“I’ve got my ways,” Mycroft says.

Greg frowns. He can’t think of anything that would work with Sherlock. He’s sure he has tried everything under the Sun, and nothing has even been good enough for Sherlock. Except—

“You got John in it, too,” Greg huffs.

Mycroft chuckles around his cigarette. “It was quite easy,” he says. “Apparently, if you’ve got a baby, anything that gets you out of the house would do.”

Greg laughs. “Well, fuck. I should have realised that.”

“You did,” Mycroft says. “Only a bit late.”

“Ha, ha,” Greg says. “Thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft stays quiet for a moment. “I looked up the case before I contacted Dr Watson.”

“Naturally,” Greg says, mocking. 

Mycroft doesn’t react to it. “Looks rather tricky. Four confessions and thirty-two eyewitnesses. Fifty-or-so hours of hearings.”

“It happens,” Greg says. “When something big happens, and media gets involved, people want in, they want to experience it, and have their fifteen minutes of fame. All publicity is good publicity, and people want it.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Greg snort. “Certainly not.”

“And still you are one of the most known detectives in London,” Mycroft says.

“Not my fault, is it?”

Mycroft tuts. Greg doesn’t know if he should take it as a compliment or not.

They smoke in silence for a moment. Then Mycroft drops his cigarette, it whizzes as it touches the wet ground, and the fire dies. The idling car moves a few feet closer on the driveway as Mycroft takes a step towards it.

“I need to go. The government doesn’t sleep,” Mycroft grimaces and gets into the waiting car. “Goodbye.”

Greg waves his hand as a goodbye and watches the car drive away. Greg walks to his car, uses his hand to wipe off the wet snow from his windscreen. Before he starts the car, he writes a text message to Sherlock.

_Come to Scotland Yard at midday tomorrow._

Sherlock’s answer, _Fine_ , comes in seconds.

*

Greg is functioning only by nicotine and caffeine, and it shows. He has been awake until the small hours of the night. He has read everything he has taken with him from work, and that alone has taken two hours. Then he has tried to decide which witnesses were trustworthy and what to believe. He has looked at the pictures and searched for something, _anything_ he might have missed. After he has finally fallen asleep, he has woken up feeling like he has had no sleep. His body feels heavy, and there is a stinging behind his eyes.

Sherlock comes to the Scotland Yard in time. John follows him, looking as tired as Greg feels, but there is also happiness in his tiredness. Greg doesn’t have that. Sherlock wants to see the place Jacqueline Roger was found, although it had been days. Sherlock believes he can find some clues there. Apparently, criminologies at Scotland Yard are “rubbish at looking at the right things”, as Sherlock puts it.

“What about the witness reports?” Greg asks. Sherlock is looking at the pictures with such a hurry he couldn’t possibly see them clearly.

“No, thank you,” Sherlock says. “No one asks the right questions.”

“Of course, they don’t,” Greg mutters. John hears it and lets out a weird sound, it’s a mixture of a laugh and a yawn.

“Right.” Sherlock slams the pictures on the table. “Let’s go.”

Greg asks if Sherlock and John would like to get a lift from him, but Sherlock declines the offer. John has nothing to say, but he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open anyway.

Greg stands a few yards away as Sherlock does his thing. Greg and his team have been there already, and they have found nothing. It makes him frustrated to know Sherlock could find something, even if they have gone through every patch of grass and turned over every rock in the forest. Sherlock walks back and forth, looks at trees, the pond and the little river that goes through the area.

Sherlock shakes moss off his hands. “Interesting,” he says after fifteen minutes of wandering around the place.

“What is?” Greg asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock answers. “Right. John, we’re going back to Baker Street. I need to check something. Lestrade, I’ll text you once I know who did it.”

“All right.” Greg has expected nothing else. He goes back to the station, Sherlock and John take a cab back to Baker Street.

If Greg had looser work morale, he could wait for Sherlock to solve the case. But the thing is, he can’t. He can’t just let it go and wait around until someone else cracks the case. He needs to do something, even if it makes him grumpy and frustrated by dinner time. He makes a statement to the press and answers questions the best he can. Afterwards, he and Sally go meet Jacqueline Roger’s parents for the second time. They find out that since they’ve last seen them, their relationship with their son has gone worse. The parents don’t approve Joshua’s need to speak publicly about Jacqueline. Greg finds it understandable, but it also raises the suspicion for the brother. Perhaps he’s trying to hide on plain sight, so to speak. And that makes the whole case only more complicated. They have so many loose ends, and Greg doesn’t know which ones to tie up first. 

Back at the station, Greg hopes he could get a few minutes to himself, but the hope gets shot down quickly, as Sally comes half-running to his office, the phone still on her ear.

“There is a hostage situation,” Sally says. “Dimmock’s already there, but the CS wants you, too.”

“Fuck,” Greg says and turns on his heels. “Where?”

“Pall Mall.”

Greg frowns. “Seriously? Civilians?”

Sally nods. “If they weren’t, the Bonds would’ve been the ones to take it, would they?”

They get to Pall Mall in minutes. There are police cars and an ambulance parked on the street. Police officers in uniforms are on traffic control duty, Dimmock is standing there with a group of armed officers. The police cars and officers don’t fit in there between the white-stoned, ornamental buildings. Greg is given an earpiece as he walks towards Dimmock. Greg is more than happy to help with the situation, but he would lie if he said he wasn’t relieved Dimmock was in lead. He knows he would be a poor leader, for a stressful situation like this, after the week he has had. He recovers quickly, even from the long-drawn cases, but in the middle of them, he can’t focus on anything else at the same time.

“We have closed the street from both ends,” Dimmock says as Greg reaches him. “There were gunshots a few minutes ago, but no one’s hurt.”

“What’s happening in there?” Greg asks.

Dimmock shrugs. “On the third floor there is a man, and he’s holding his wife and two daughters hostage. He has threatened to shoot everyone and himself if we got any closer. They don’t need the police and would like to ‘handle it themselves.’”

“Fuck,” Greg curses.

“Yep,” Dimmock says. Greg looks around. It has been a long time since he was last on Pall Mall for work. It seems like that part of the town rarely called the police for anything. The street looks weird and unfamiliar with all the police forces and blinking blue lights.

As sieges go, it is a calm one. Nothing happens for hours. Dimmock has tried to speak to the man, but he has been unwilling to listen. Dimmock hasn’t given up, and Greg has absolute trust in him. Dimmock has a speciality in situations like this, and he knows what to do. Greg’s task is to keep the street empty and give Dimmock all the support he can give, Dimmock gives the orders, and Greg makes sure everybody does as they are told. But as the hours go by, Greg gets more stressed. He has too little clothes on, and the frustration and weariness from the past days combined with the highly stressing situation on hand, make Greg fidgety and anxious. 

It gets darker, and the situation gets more charged. Greg can hear shouting, and how his blood rushes. He moves to the background, away from the most intense site. The lights on top of the police cars are constantly blinking on the darkened street, they paint the outside walls of the two hundred years old buildings with blue. For a moment Greg focuses on those. It’s a coping mechanism they have been taught back in training. When everything feels overwhelming and chaotic, use your senses; look at things, find colours, textures, focus on one thing at a time, ground yourself. It helps after a minute. 

Dimmock is talking on a phone, the blue lights make him look older, worn. There is a buzzing in the air, the suspense wires up—something is happening. In Greg’s earpiece, someone says, “ _We’re going in,_ ” and after that, a lot of things happen in a short period of time. 

Armed officers break themselves into the third-floor apartment, and, for everyone’s relief, the situation abates fast and with minimum use of force. The man is taken away in handcuffs, and his wife and children are taken to the ambulance. They seem physically alright. Dimmock curses how they should have gone in earlier, how they wasted too much time. 

Greg goes to see the wife and the children. They all look shaken. A paramedic gives them blankets and water. The younger child looks about four, she sits on her mother's lap, and it still sobbing. The older of the two is shivering under a blanket, her mother's arm around her. Greg asks the paramedic if it’s alright for him to ask a few questions, and when the permission is given to him, he goes in.

“Hi,” he says and shows his badge to the woman. “I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

The woman gives him a sob-laugh. “I know. I’ve seen your picture in the news.”

Bloody fucking publicity. “Can I ask you a few questions?” he asks. The woman nods.

They talk for five minutes. Her name is Emma, his husband’s, his ex-husband’s, name is Tony. The story is nothing unfamiliar to Greg. Emma and Tony had gotten divorced a year ago. Emma had a new boyfriend and was about to move in with him. The kids were supposed to go see their dad for a weekend, but there had been a verbal fight between Emma and Tony, and the result was this. Tony is pathologically jealous, delusional, and an overall mess. Greg doesn’t know what to say, other than he’s sorry. He leaves Emma and her kids with the paramedic and goes looking for Dimmock. 

Dimmock looks pissed, and when Greg says he did a good job, he scoffs.

“We should’ve gone in earlier,” he says, “it could have been over sooner.”

“Well, you couldn’t know that,” Greg reassures him. “No one’s hurt, isn’t that the most important thing?”

Dimmock shrugs. Greg tries to find something else to say, but he’s interrupted by Sally’s voice.

“Um, Greg?” She looks annoyed.

“What?”

“You’re needed,” Sally says, nodding to the direction of the roadblock on the east side of Pall Mall. “Some man with a bloody private driver wants to have words.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Greg hisses because of-fucking-course there is. “Thanks, Sally,” he adds softer, it’s not her fault.

“Do you _actually_ know people like that?” Sally shouts after him, and Greg waves his hand at her as a _Shut up_. 

Greg walks where Sally has come from. There is a black car first in live, the driver stands on the road and talks with a Traffic Officer. 

“I can take this,” Greg says to the officer, he checks his nametag, “Cooper.”

Cooper raises both of his hands. “You’re welcome,” he says and leaves. Greg goes under the barricade tape. The driver greets him with a nod, Greg nods back. Dimmed window on the back opens, and Greg walks over to it, leans his side on the car, crosses his arms and looks inside the car. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Mycroft and Anthea are sitting on the back seat. Anthea has her focus on her phone as if nothing interesting is happening. 

“I live here,” Mycroft says. 

“Fuck off,” Greg snort. Mycroft says nothing.

The realisation hits him hard and comes out as laughter. “ _Seriously_? _Here_? Come on. No one lives here.”

Mycroft doesn’t seem to understand what Greg means.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Greg mutters to himself. “Here?”

Mycroft stays quiet, but the expression he gives speaks louder than words. 

“Well,” Greg says, points at the closed street ahead of them. “This can take a few, so you can’t get through with a car.”

“A few?” Mycroft asks with steady, toneless voice. Greg looks at his wristwatch. 

“At least half an hour.”

Mycroft sighs dissatisfied. Greg waits as Mycroft murmurs something to Anthea.

“Fine,” Mycroft says then.

“Hm?”

“We’ll wait.”

“For thirty minutes?” Greg asks. He struggles to keep his voice calm, he gets way too much enjoyment out of the situation. This might be the best thing that has happened in the past week. “You need to move the car, though.” 

“God’s sake,” Mycroft scoffs. Greg bites down his smile, he should probably feel bad, but Mycroft’s obvious annoyance makes it even better. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Mycroft says.

“Then walk,” Greg says.

“Excuse me?”

Greg grins. “Walk. You can go, the car can’t. I’ve been trying to tell you that, haven’t I?”

Anthea says something to Mycroft, but the first leaving police car roars over her words. The ambulance follows seconds later. A half an hour might be an overestimated time frame, but Greg won’t say that to Mycroft. He enjoys this a bit too much.

The door opens, and Greg has to move aside. Mycroft doesn’t quite look at him as he gets out of the car.

“Alright,” Greg says. “Which building do you live in?”

“It’s on the other end,” Mycroft says, his words are hisses through his teeth. 

“You should’ve come from the west side,” Greg chuckles. “Let’s go then.” When Mycroft just looks at him, Greg spreads his arms. “I can’t let you go through a crime scene on your own”

“This is not a crime scene,” Mycroft says. 

“Maybe not anymore, but it was like five minutes ago,” Greg says and lifts the tape to let Mycroft go under it. However, Mycroft doesn’t move. Greg sighs.

“Come _on_.” 

Mycroft goes under the tape and starts walking. Greg lets him lead the way. Greg can feel Sally’s gaze from the other side of the street, he tries to ignore it. Mycroft walks fast, and Greg has to jog to keep up. 

“So,” Greg finally says, now that he has had his fun. “Bad day?”

“One could say that,” Mycroft says. 

“Do you need to… rant?” Greg asks, uncertain of what he’s offering exactly. 

Mycroft doesn’t answer, and Greg doesn’t pressure him. They walk in silence until Mycroft stops in front of a building. 

“Oh, my God,” Greg says accidentally out loud. It’s a goddamn fancy house. The apartment building Greg lives in look like a box compared to this house. There are pillars on the doorway, and the windows facing the street are big with ornamental windowsills. There is probably a porter and private lift and whatever you can get with money. It’s probably one of the most traditional buildings on the street, it’s posh and impressive, and _way_ over Greg’s paycheck. 

“You seriously live here?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

“Jesus.” Greg shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mycroft looks at him expressionlessly. “I’m sorry?” Even if he’s voice is calm, Greg believes he can hear hurt in the words. 

“No offence, but what was that lie you tell around? A minor position in the government? That’s a pretty bad lie if anyone figures out where you live,” Greg says. The property value of these houses is _millions_. 

Mycroft is fiddling his house keys. Up close he looks more tired than annoyed, and maybe Greg feels a little bad after all. It seems the Met isn’t the only one who has had a challenging night.

“Right,” Greg says, he knows when he’s not needed. “Good night and sorry about this.” He nods towards the police cars. 

“A hostage situation involving a 34-years-old male, 32-years-old female and two children ages four and six. Two gunshots approximately a quoter after seven,” Mycroft lists. “Quite understandable. Good night.” 

With that Mycroft goes into the building. Greg tries to peek inside, but he can’t see anything and then the door closes. He has sudden interest on Mycroft’s home since he can’t imagine how a man like Mycroft would want to live, how he would furnish his place, and would he own anything normal like a fridge or a TV. Greg just really wants to know what the interior of a flat on Pall Mall looks like. 

Greg walks back to where Sally and the last couple of police cars still are. Sally has a _face_ on. Greg braces himself.

“Who was that?” she asks as soon as Greg is close enough to hear.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Greg answers.

“Sherlock’s brother?” Sally asks as if she didn’t know.

“Yes, that Mycroft Holmes, not the other one we know,” Greg replies. Sally rolls her eyes. 

“What was he doing here?” she asks. “Does he live here? Wait—do you know him?”

Greg doesn’t even know which question he should answer. He chooses the last one. “A little.”

“A little?” Sally repeats. “What does that mean?”

Greg shrugs. It really isn’t Sally’s business who he knows and how much. And they have a more urgent matter on hand, anyway. 

“Is it all done here?” Greg asks. Sally goes straight back to work mode, as she should. 

“Dimmock’s already going back to the station, and there are few forensic officers in the apartment. Did you hear the details?” she asks. Greg nods.

“Well,” Sally says then and stretches her arms. “This was a nice pause from the Roger case.”

Greg groans. “Don’t fucking remind me of that, Donovan.”

Sally smirks. “Sorry, sir.”

“Go home,” Greg says to her, not quite ordering but firmly all the same.

“I should. Will you, though?” Sally asks, not quite concerned but interested all the same. 

“God, yes.” It has been a hell of a week and a hell of a day on top of it. Sleeping is already hard as it was, and it would be even harder if he lingered there. They’re done, he should get home, eat something and go to bed. 

He can worry about Roger and everything else tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things! this is, obviously, a BBC!Sherlock fic and like 98% of the canon is from the show. There are however some things that are ACD canon, for example that Mycroft lives on Pall Mall. And as far as BBC!canon goes, there is so much freedom when it comes to Mystrade. it's nice and I've used my freedom quite a bit, as we know basically nothing about Greg's back story.  
> anyway, tell me what you think, and I would love to hear what you think is related to what. :')


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya. thank you for the feedback <3 as I have been struggling with this chapter a lot, like a LOT, this week, your kind words have been a life (or a fic) saver. but yeah, idk this week has been a weird one and I've seriously doubted everything about this, from the start to the end, just my perfectionism kicking in hard I guess. but here it is, finally, chapter three aka "Mycroft needs a hobby (and sleeping doesn't count)"
> 
> Also!! note that I've mentioned real-life events from February 2015 in this chapter, I'll put them in the endnotes so if you think there might be something that'll be triggering you, please check them out before reading <3

It’s Greg’s day off. It should be Greg’s day off, and sure, he’s not _at_ work. It doesn’t mean he won’t _do_ work. He knows he has missed something. The Roger case doesn’t go anywhere, he’s going around in circles, and it makes him dizzy, figuratively and literally. Therefore, at 10 o’clock on Sunday morning, he’s standing behind Sherlock’s door. It has only been two days since Sherlock was at the crime scene, but Greg hasn’t heard anything from him and he’s getting impatient. He wants to get it solved. Yesterday they haven’t gotten anything done as they have been dealing with the aftermath of the Pall Mall situation, and as nothing new has come out of the killing of Jacqueline Roger, the hostage-taking and the following siege from Friday night has been the most urgent matter to get done. 

Mrs Hudson has given him biscuits to get upstairs, and Greg feels rather stupid standing there with a bowl of freshly made biscuits. He knocks on the door, waits for a moment, and as nothing happens, he goes in. He opens the door, sees Sherlock and Mycroft, and tries to go straight back into the hall. It doesn’t happen as quickly as he would have wished. Sherlock is sitting on his armchair and Mycroft stands in the middle of the room. They look like they are in the middle of something, but neither one of them is speaking. Greg’s certain that they have heard him come up from the stairs, and then they have been waiting there quietly until Greg has come in. 

“Lestrade,” says Sherlock. 

“Inspector,” says Mycroft.

“Good morning,” says Greg. Sherlock and Mycroft are looking at him as if they are waiting for some kind of explanation on why Greg is standing there with a bowl of biscuits in his hand. Right, the biscuits, Greg thinks, and puts the bowl on the closest surface. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks. Before Greg can answer, Mycroft does it for him.

“Isn’t that quite clear?” Mycroft says. “Isn’t there a case you have promised to solve?”

“Oh yeah, that one,” Sherlock says. “It was easy.”

“Rather obvious, yes,” Mycroft agrees. Greg is standing there, waiting for some clarification, but he gets none. 

“You said it’s _clear._ Why?” Sherlock asks then. 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

Sherlock makes a gesture to g _o on_. Greg would like Mycroft _not_ to go on, but no one seems to care what he thinks. 

“Last meal he had was on Wednesday, and after that, he has had only sandwiches and coffee. Bad coffee, because the thought of coffee made him wince. He has smoked more cigarettes than usual, his jacket smells of cigarette smoke, but he hasn’t done anything to it, so he hasn’t noticed that himself. Long hours at work, and overworking has caused him insomnia. Six, no, seven nights of badly slept nights. Long hours are caused by a case, a murder that is, and as the investigation has been going on for over a week, it’s only natural he has come to you, little brother,” Mycroft lists. His tone is calm, almost bored. It makes Greg feel a bit bad, it is about him. He didn’t know he was that boring. 

“And most importantly, he has come here on his day off; he is dressed even more casual than normally. It’s earlier than he would usually visit on a Sunday, so it’s bothering him,” Mycroft says, then adds after a moment: “And that is all visible even if I didn’t read the news.”

“You missed his posture,” Sherlock says, he looks at Greg over his touching fingertips. 

“My posture?” Greg asks and automatically tries to correct it.

“Why are you trying to distract me?” Mycroft asks with a tight voice. Sherlock only smiles at him, and Greg knows that smile. It’s the one that has a challenge in it.

“His posture, Mycroft.”

“Muscle pains on his upper back, shoulders and neck,” Mycroft says, with a hand wave, like it’s not important. “He keeps raising his shoulders when he gets stressed.”

“Makes him stand funny,” Sherlock adds.

“Stop now, please,” Greg begs, he has not come here to be examined by the Holmes’ brothers. But he adds: “I didn’t know the coffee was that bad.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says and Mycroft nods as an agreement. 

Greg clears his throat. “So, the case. You solved it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “It’s the father,” he says matter-of-factly like it really was so obvious anyone should have guessed it. 

Greg surely hasn’t guessed it. He blinks stupidly for a moment. “The _father_? How?”

“It’s the genes,” Sherlock says.

Greg is so confused. “The genes?” 

Both Sherlock and Mycroft turn to look at him, and even if they didn’t look at him like he was the stupidest person on Earth not getting it, he feels like it. There has been only a couple of times he has been in the same room with both Sherlock and Mycroft. He shouldn’t be surprised the combination of both of them is quite awful for the other people involved, but he is a bit. He wonders how John does it without punching them. 

“ _Yes,_ the genes,” Sherlock says and jumps out of the chair. “Now, I have things to do, so please, leave now.”

Greg doesn’t give his words much attention, his brain is buzzing. He tries to think anything that would explain Sherlock’s statement, but he gets nothing. He trusts Sherlock, it’s not that, but he doesn’t _understand_. 

Mycroft inhales deeply. “Sherlock—,” he starts, but Sherlock speaks over him.

“ _Go._ I have things to do,” Sherlock says.

“And what would that be?” Mycroft’s tone resembles the annoyance of a parent trying to get their teenager to behave.

“A man went missing last week. But that man has been officially dead for almost 20 years. So he has had an alias but for some reason, he has stopped using it. Something peculiar is happening and I don’t yet know what, because _someone_ has made me do _other_ things.” Sherlock gives Mycroft a meaningful look, and Mycroft scoffs. 

“Excuse me? I still don’t know what you meant. Why Mr Roger killed his daughter?” Greg tries to get Sherlock’s attention, but it’s Mycroft who starts to explain it.

“The killing itself was negligent and the attempt to dispose of the body was very poor, which indicates the killer hasn’t known what they were doing and that it has been very stressful, so it has been an accident, or at least not planned,” Mycroft says, his style of speech is very similar to Sherlock when he gets on the mood of explaining his deductions. “The parents have been reluctant to speak to the press and have been displeased with the brother for making it so public, so it’s quite clear they want to hide something. The brother, he’s a _half_ -brother, quite easily observed, as he is both right-handed and has green eyes, which is not possible with the gene combination from Mr and Mrs Roger, as she has blue eyes and he has brown eyes and they are both left-handed. The victim was left-handed and had brown eyes, so presumably, she was their daughter, but the brother has a different mother as the handedness is inherited from the mother.”

“Right,” Greg says, somewhat still onboard with the explanation. “Then why—?”

“ _Pride,_ ” Sherlock answers before Greg has even gotten to the end of his question. “Because the brother’s mother is not public knowledge, but everything else about him seems to be, it’s a secret. He’s likely a love-child from an affair, or whatever people find scandalous. She found out and as she has been jealous of his brother’s fame, people have talked about it on Twitter, she has threatened to make the information public, his father panicked and killed her. Solved.”

“Alright,” Greg says. There is a weird atmosphere in the room and Greg feels like he should probably say something.

“You can go now,” Sherlock says, then adds: “Both of you.”

Mycroft tuts in a way that says very clearly that he’s not done. Greg doesn’t know what Mycroft is doing here, but then again—he rarely knows what either of them does _ever_. Maybe it’s a brotherly visit, even if the image seems unlikely to Greg. Greg could go to see Maggie for no reason whatsoever, but Mycroft? Greg doubts it. He tries to find some hints of why Mycroft is visiting Sherlock, but he gets nothing. Goddammit, he’s a bloody detective, but apparently, he’s not very good at it. 

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asks Greg, then turns to Mycroft. “And don’t you have a plane crash to deal with?”

“A what?” Greg asks. He knows he gets tunnel vision when he’s on a case, but he doesn’t usually miss anything big like a _plane crash_. 

“There was a plane crash in Taiwan on the fourth,” Mycroft tells him. “And it’s already dealt with,” he adds.

“Then go. Away,” Sherlock says, he pauses between the two words. “I havea case, and I would like to get back to it.” To strengthen the words Sherlock takes his laptop and starts typing hard. The clicking is ridiculously theatrical even for Sherlock. 

“Fine,” Mycroft says. “I don’t have time for this kind of juvenile behaviour anyway.” He turns to leave.

“You too, Lestrade,” Sherlock orders pointing at the door, not looking up from the computer screen. “You two can go associatesomewhere else. Goodbye.”

Greg follows Mycroft to the stairs. He catches Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs, he has stopped to button his coat. 

“So,” Greg starts. “Why were you here?” 

Mycroft glances at him. “I came to check up on Sherlock.”

“Yeah?”

“There has been a request to get Sherlock to investigate a matter in hand,” Mycroft says. Greg notices how he uses circumlocutionary words to tell as little as possible about the matter to Greg. “But I’ve established that Sherlock’s capability at this moment does not sufficient to a matter of that range.”

“You think so?” Greg asks. They go outside and stand in front of the coffee shop, where the pentice is above them. It has started to rain again; the past few days have been rainy, and Greg hates the winter weather. Rain in the winter is always _cold_ , and it feels like it goes straight through him and nests into his bones. The rainy cold is very different from the snowy cold. Greg prefers snow, anyway. He should probably move up north. 

“I do, yes,” Mycroft says. “I know my brother, even if he might think otherwise. I believe it’s best to let him do his thing for now, and get someone else on our case.”

“Alright,” Greg says, he has nothing else to say as he believes Mycroft knows best. “By the way, did you even find out what happened with the Braddock bloke? Why he was in the river and all that,” he inquires. It has been nagging him ever since they talked about it and the case was taken away from them. 

Mycroft looks at him for a moment. “No, we didn’t,” he answers. “ _That_ is the case. There has been a turn of events so to say.”

“Oh.” Greg’s surprised Mycroft tells him that, and that he has accidentally asked the right thing for once. 

“Why Sherlock, though? Why don’t you solve it?” Greg asks. 

Mycroft makes a disgusted scoffing noise. “I don’t do that.”

“Why not?” He really wants to know, but Mycroft only shakes his head. There goes that, Greg thinks. 

“You probably have some kind of theory, don’t you?” Greg tries. He hates that he knows _something_ but not everything. It’s going to bug him for the rest of times if he never gets to know what has happened.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

Greg doesn’t bother to ask any further. He knows he won’t get any answers, and he probably knows too much already. Any more knowledge for him and the MI6 will get him killed.

“And before you ask,” Mycroft says, his tone is different, but Greg can’t tell exactly how so. “I can’t give it to you.”

Greg snorts out loud. “I didn’t ask,” he says, but doesn’t add _I’m not that stupid_.

“Good.”

After a few moments, a car pulls over. Mycroft wishes him a good rest of the day and gets into the car. Greg decides to wait until the rain gets even a bit lighter. As he waits, his thoughts are rapidly bouncing around his head. He finds it odd that the Secret Intelligent Service hasn’t gotten their case done. He wonders what has been the turn of events Mycroft has mentioned. 

He curses to himself. He has just gotten rid of the earlier case and now his thoughts are turning on some other one. His day off isn’t going too well. 

*

In the following week, they arrest Mr Roger and he confesses the killing. Turns out Mrs Roger has also known what had happened to their daughter, but they had decided together not to tell. Joshua Roger has told the media he will try and find his real mother, not that he knows his father’s wife isn’t his mother after all. He’s going to make a YouTube series out of it. The media doesn’t stop going on about it, obviously, but at least Scotland Yard doesn’t look like a pile of shit on their eyes anymore. Greg gets some of his respect back, which is nice.

Until John writes his blog. _The Fatal Fame_ gets a lot of publicity and it’s obvious to everyone, that the Scotland Yard hasn’t been the clever one there. Greg has gotten used to it, but after all the pressure they’ve been under by the media, but the way John has put the case in his blog, makes them look even stupider than before. 

_\- - It was quite easy for Sherlock to figure it out. The police took us to see the place where Jacqueline was found since Sherlock insisted that he needed to see the place. In the forest he looked around for five minutes or so and in the taxi back to Baker Street he scrolled through Twitter. He told me then that he knew what had happened! It took him five minutes in the forest and other five in Twitter and he knew already. Sherlock explained it to me: Apparently, there was a secret in the family and that secret had taken her life. Or not the secret, the father! - -_

Greg thinks he might need to get better friends. The feeling passes, it always does, but the time it stings, it really stings. But as his days go, there is a new case in hand two days after that, and he can’t get stuck on something as little as Sherlock solving his cases in _ten bloody minutes_. He needs to get his head on the right thing, and that thing is an arm.

There is an arm in a plastic bag. It’s not every day you get an arm as a piece of evidence, but that Wednesday seems to be that kind of day. Greg is used to bodies, he has seen dead people every week for twenty years. But separated body parts? That he is not used to. The bag smells like blood and rotting flesh, and that is not a pleasant smell. It feels like he can taste the rusty smell on his tongue as he breathes. It makes him nauseous, and Sally looks like she’s going to be sick.

“This is nice,” she says. She has crossed her arms, her shoulders are high and tight. 

“You alright?” Greg asks. 

“Yeah,” Sally says. “I’m fine. It’s just. It’s an _arm_.”

“I can see that.”

“Some days I hate this job,” Sally admits. Greg nods, he knows what she means. It _is_ hard, but there is someone out there who has put an arm in a plastic bag, and they—he—needs to find them. Fast.

“Wanna get coffee after?” he asks Sally, like the good boss he is or tries to be. Sally looks at him, uncrosses her arms and gives him a one-sided smile.

“Might need something stronger than that.”

They don’t have much to do about the arm. The Dog Support Unit is in charge of the searching for the rest of the body; the lab report has stated that the arm has been separated from a dead body. At least they know what they are looking for, but they aren’t sure yet _who_ they’re looking for. Greg hopes they will know that sooner than later. 

After their shifts are over, Greg takes Sally to a nearby pub. It has been months since the last time they’ve done it. It’s a good sign; it means there haven’t been any disturbing cases lately. Three years before they had gone there probably too often. It was a rough time for them personally and professionally. There were too many things happening at the same time, Sherlock had fake-died, Anderson had left the force, Greg’s divorce went through, and they were under criticism like never before. Maybe it isn’t the best way to get close to someone, but he and Sally have gotten closer to each other over pints. 

“What a fucking day,” Sally says. She sits on their usual booth near windows. It’s dark and misty outside, the perfect February weather, Greg thinks as he comes to sit opposite of Sally. He has gotten her a beer too.

“To that,” Greg says and raises his pint. Sally clangs hers to it.

“Cheers,” she says and takes a sip. “I should’ve gone to the culinary school instead.”

“Don’t you dare,” Greg says firmly. “Two years and you’ll get Gregson’s place.”

Sally smiles. “Yeah, about that. I don’t know if I want it.”

“If I have any say in this—” Greg starts, but Sally speaks over him.

“You don’t,” she says. “I don’t want it. There are better people for that. Davies, for example.”

Greg raises his hands as a sign of surrender. “Fine. I’ll make sure you won’t get it.”

Sally snorts. “Fuck you.”

“So, do you want to talk work or something else?” he asks. 

“Something else,” Sally says at once. “I’m not up to any more discussion about the _thing_.”

They have started to call the investigation as The Thing since no one really wants to call it _the arm_. 

“How’s life?” Greg asks, to get the topic off work.

“Slow,” Sally answers smiling. “Normal. God bless, it’s normal.”

“Yeah, it helps,” Greg says. 

“How’s _your_ life, though?” Sally asks and she has a grin on her face that makes Greg fear the worst. Sally is known to be, not nosy per se, but curious _._ And Greg is possibly the perfect opposite of it. He really doesn’t care about gossip and as long as he has a say in the subject, he’d like to keep himself out of it, both participating and being the subject _of_ the gossip. 

“Normal,” Greg answers as Sally’s echo, and it’s not a lie. For most parts his life is normal. Sure, sometimes it can be a little ridiculous, but isn’t that quite ordinary. 

“You are so boring,” Sally says. She drinks her beer and looks at Greg over the glass. 

“You mean old.”

“No, I don’t,” Sally says. “Just wondering.”

“ _What?_ ” Greg knows what’s coming. 

“There has been a rumour going on,” Sally starts, her face stays stony but Greg can hear the excitement underneath her words. It makes him want to down the beer in one gulp and maybe get another as soon as possible. 

The thing is, if you have been friends with Sherlock Holmes for years on end, the concept of privacy has changed. Sherlock can’t keep anything a secret, mostly because he misses the construct of private things. Sometimes it’s good (or not bad, since “good” might be too strong of a word), Greg believes it has been the best way to hear about his cheating wife through Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t hold things back or leave things unsaid because he doesn’t want to hurt other peoples feelings. Unfortunately, that also means that Sherlock can and will say things out loud that should probably be left unsaid, for example, John’s ex-girlfriend’s chronic nail fungus, Molly has an irregular menstrual cycle, Mrs Hudson likes to watch Britain’s Got Talent because she finds Simon Cowell hot, Greg likes blokes, Sally had an affair with Philip behind his wife’s back for almost two years. 

And because of that Greg would like to keep his private life private at work. Sally’s his mate, but she’s also his _workmate_. 

“What rumour?” he sighs. He knows it’s all in good humour but that doesn’t mean he would like it any better.

“Just that you have been seeing someone,” Sally says, too lightly for Greg to not realise she’s actually interested whether it’s true or not. “Of course you haven’t, because your _boring_ like that. Have you actually been on a date since Cora?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Donovan,” Greg says. 

Sally scrunches up her nose. “Spoilsport.”

“You know me,” Greg says, but after a minute he continues, to not to sound too straight-laced. “I promise you’ll be the first one to know if I ever get married again.”

“Ha, as if,” Sally laughs. “You’re friends with Sherlock, aren’t you? I bet I’ll be the last one to know.”

“Sherlock doesn’t count,” Greg says, only he knows Sally’s right about it. Sherlock would probably know two years before Greg has even met the person. 

After that, they talk about football and other unimportant things like that. It’s nice and probably better than just going home and watching telly for the rest of the night. It makes him think that he should get in touch with Maggie and his mates more. He’s not too bad at keeping up with his family and friends, but occasionally he has this kind of weeks and months when work takes all of his time and there is a big case after big case. He realises now when he’s sitting there with Sally, talking nonsense, how important that is.

*

Since they have found the arm in a plastic bag, the whole case has been on a standstill. They know it belongs to a young-ish male, but as nothing comes up, there isn’t much to do. There are other smaller, easier cases over the week, attempted robbery and an assault. He hasn’t been actively thinking about the arm, so when Sally comes to his office looking grim-faced and worried, he doesn’t realise right away what’s happening.

“What?” he asks, impatient.

“There’s another arm,” Sally says. “Only this time it was found by your favourite consulting detective.”

“Sherlock?” Greg asks, his brain needs a few more seconds before it gets on the right track. 

“Yes,” Sally says. “He’s waiting for you, so.”

Greg gets up and follows Sally. Sherlock’s standing on the other side of the pull pen, his coat collars are up and he's tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. 

“Finally,” Sherlock says. “I have good news.”

“If you think separated body parts are good news,” Greg says and realises half through Sherlock might actually think they are. “Where is it?”

“At Barts,” Sherlock says. “I’m not stupid.”

“Where did you find it?” Greg asks.

“My homeless network has been keeping an eye for me for things like that,” Sherlock says.

“Arms?” Sally asks.

“No, or yes, but not only arms. Just anything out of ordinary, I’m looking for a missing man,” Sherlock explains. “Do you know whose arms they are? What has happened?”

“No,” Greg answers, he feels how Sally is looking at him disappointingly. Her attitude towards Sherlock hasn’t changed much. She no longer thinks he’s a fraud, but she still thinks he’s a weirdo. “But I guess you do?”

“I have theories, yes,” Sherlock says. “Do you want my help?”

Greg thinks for a moment. “Alright then,” he says. Sally scoffs and Greg senses her eye roll before she walks away and leaves Greg alone with Sherlock. 

“Good,” Sherlock says. “So two arms. Do you have any idea where the rest of the body is?”

“What makes you think they’re from the same body?” Greg asks.

“Obviously they are,” Sherlock says, tone indicating Greg should know that already. “Two separated arms in two different locations, but no bodies. If there was more than one victim, there would be more bodies and someone who has a habit of leaving cut off arms in plastic bags around the city, is not someone who would be able to keep more than one body hidden for a week, so there is one body. The balance of probability, really, coincidences are too messy. And the DNA test will prove it. He obviously wants the arms to be found, which they are but by the wrong people, that is why he has left another arm around. It’s a warning or a message, maybe both. That’s why they have been out in the open for everyone, even for the Scotland Yard to find.”

“He?” Greg asks, he ignores the Scotland Yard comment.

“Yes, it’s a he,” Sherlock says. “It’s a man’s arm and have you ever tried to cut out an arm? Sawing through the bone is not hard exactly, but it requires work, and you can see from the cut that it’s not done by a bone saw or say, chainsaw, so yes, it has been a man. Women tend to be precise, the cut would be much cleaner, also women are rarely that violent.”

“Right,” Greg says, he hopes someone is writing that down. “Anything else?”

“The corpse is roughly six feet tall. Assuming he still has legs now that we have taken his arms,” Sherlock says. “Tell me about the first arm.”

“It was in a plastic bag. There was quite a bit of blood, the whole bag smelled like blood, you know, like copper. It’s cut around there,”—Greg showed the place from his own arm—“and there was no tattoos or anything like that.”

“The smell is actually the iron in the blood mixed with human skin, it has nothing to do with metal,” Sherlock says.

Greg knows that. 

“Was there any foreign DNA found?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, the lab is running it through.”

“Ah, this is so good,” Sherlock says and claps his hands together. “I need to go see the other arm.”

“Um, Sherlock?” Greg says slowly. “How about you just, I don’t know, call John? We can work this together when you’ve got John with you.”

“Why would I need John?” Sherlock asks, actually confused. “John’s not very good with arms.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Yes, but not a very good one.”

Greg sighs. “Call John, Sherlock. I’m not gonna let you into the case if you sound like the armless corpse somewhere is the best thing on earth. It’s murder, it’s not _nice_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock spits.

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. With John, alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You can report that to Mycroft, too.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Greg wishes from the bottom of his heart he doesn’t sound guilty.

“You _know_ what,” Sherlock says, turns to leave. “Goodbye.”

Sherlock’s been right, obviously. Greg has been thinking about reporting back to Mycroft. It has been a long time ago since Sherlock has sounded that excited about violent death, and maybe the reason really is that John isn’t around as much as before. Possibly Greg has been too optimistic saying he wouldn’t be worried. 

It takes a couple of hours until Greg has the time to call Mycroft. He goes outside, thinking that if there really is a rumour going around about his personal life, it’s best to make personal calls where he’s not overheard. He dials Mycroft’s number and waits, he listens to the beeps that go on and on, and he’s already starting to think Mycroft won’t answer when he gets a greeting.

“ _Good afternoon, this is Mr Holmes’ phone, Anthea speaking,_ ” says Anthea.

“Hello, it’s Greg. Lestrade,” Greg adds, because how the hell would he know how many people names Greg Mycroft knows. “I was trying to reach Mycroft.”

“ _Yes, Mr Holmes is occupied right now,_ ” Anthea says. She sounds a bit too professional, like she’s trying very hard to sound happy and carefree. Greg frowns.

“Alright,” Greg says. “It’s nothing urgent, just Sherlock, you know.”

“ _I could tell him to call you back once he has the time_ ,” Anthea offers.

“Sure,” Greg says. Anthea sounds like she’s in a hurry, so Greg lets her go to do whatever she does. “That would be great. Thank you, Anthea.”

“ _You’re welcome, sir_ ,” she answers. They say their goodbyes and Anthea ends the call. Greg goes back inside, he has lab reports to go through before his shift ends. 

*

Mycroft calls him back at 5.30 the next morning. Greg is already up at that point, he’s having his third cup of coffee, he has smoked two cigarettes and been on the phone with his boss. When Mycroft’s call comes, Greg isn’t at all surprised by the time. Mycroft probably knows Greg’s up, and they both have the same reason to be awake at that time. There have been three shootings in Denmark yesterday, and even if the situation is over, that doesn’t mean the situation would be _over_ -over. That’s the thing with terrorism—it increases terrorism and Greg knows how the counter-terrorism measures affect the Met, but he can only imagine what kind of a night the government has had.

“Morning,” Greg says to the phone, he thinks the prefix _good_ would be a bit of a reach.

“ _You tried to call me_ ,” Mycroft says. He sounds tired, just _tired._ Greg feels bad for him.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “I saw Sherlock yesterday but I think it’s nothing—”

“ _Obviously you don’t think that_ ,” Mycroft states. “ _What is it?_ ”

Greg really wouldn’t want to bother Mycroft with this, he has so much more to worry about. “Just, we have a case and Sherlock got a bit too excited about it. It got me a bit worried, that’s all.”

“ _Is it about the arms found around the city?_ ” Mycroft asks. Greg isn’t surprised that Mycroft knows about them. 

“Yes,” Greg says. “But Sherlock promised to get John and I hope John would, I don’t know, make Sherlock a bit less...” Greg struggles to find the right word to describe it. 

“ _Himself?_ ” Mycroft suggests. 

“I guess, yeah,” Greg says. 

“ _Very well_ ,” Mycroft says, and Greg can hear the same forced professionalism in his voice as he had found in Anthea’s tone the day before. “ _Thank you for the update, I’ll make sure he’s—”_

“Wait,” Greg says quickly. He blames the five-thirty o’clock, the day ahead, the world, the fact that he is a nice guy, _something_. 

“ _What?_ ”

“Look,” Greg says, “do you ever like, uh, talk?”

“ _About what?_ ” Greg realises Mycroft isn’t pretending ignorance, he really doesn’t know what Greg is trying to say. 

“About what happens in the world? Or you know, whatever that is that you do.” Greg thinks about the evening he has spend with Sally in a pub, and how much easier it has made the case to handle. Even if they haven’t talked about the case, just _talking_ has helped. And quite frankly Greg is certain that Mycroft hasn’t talked about anything that happens in his life _ever_. That can’t be healthy. 

“ _Why should I_?” Mycroft asks, his voice is calm.

“Because people do that,” Greg says. It’s a poor excuse of an answer, but Mycroft is a clever man, he should know what Greg means. “So just so you know, the offer still stands.”

“ _What offer_?”

“If you needed to rant,” Greg says. “I’m a good listener, believe me, or not but even my ex-wife would say that. So, if you needed someone to talk to.”

There is a long silence. 

A _l-o-n-g_ silence. Greg has to check if the call is still on. It is, Mycroft is just silent.

The silence gets ridiculously lengthy, and Greg is already starting to say _Forget it_ when Mycroft finally speaks. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he says. 

“Fine?”

“ _I believe you’re free at seven in the evening_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Probably, yeah,” Greg says. “If nothing happens.”

“ _You know where I live._ ”

Greg bumps accidentally on the doorway and coffee spills out of the cup. Then he steps on the coffee puddle. 

“Right,” he says. 

Mycroft ends the call and Greg guesses it would be too much to ask from him to say some goodbyes. Greg puts his phone down, drinks the rest of the coffee, and tries to decide if he has done something very stupid or not and if Mycroft has just made an _appointment_ with him. Be that as it may, Greg has to admit he’s very curious to see Mycroft’s home, and that curiosity is enough for him to not care about anything else. The curiosity might have killed the cat, but what comes to Greg, it might just lead to a very awkward conversation. 

The day is weird. There are fewer people in the Scotland Yard than usually, but there is a lot more hassle going on. Sherlock and John come around for the case and Greg finds himself observing Sherlock and how he acts the whole time they are in his office. Sherlock says nothing of it but Greg knows he knows. With John present, Sherlock seems a lot more _human_ , and he doesn’t act like the armless body is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

“What do you think?” John asks. “Could it be a cannibal?” They have gathered everything they have on the table. John and Sherlock are looking at the pictures. 

“A cannibal?” Greg asks.

“No,” Sherlock says, the word comes out as a sigh. “Why would a cannibal leave arms laying around?”

“If he doesn’t like them,” John says. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says and straightens up. “These arms belong to a middle-aged, married caretaker. There are calluses on his right-hand thenar web space from using tools like rakes and brooms, his palms are dry from the gloves and the cleansers he has used. You can see from his hands he has used them a lot. He has worked in a school or somewhere else he has worked both inside and outside. He’s married, there was no ring but his left ring finger has a permanent dint from the ring. He has used the ring continuously but has taken it out while working, so he may have been killed while working. The veins on the back of his palms show he’s between forty-five and fifty, you can compare them to Lestrade’s hands, and he has been working as a caretaker for most of his life.”

“And the motive?” Greg asks. 

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock says. “But not cannibalism.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Thank you,” he adds, and nods to the sergeant Davis, who has been listening, to go and do the necessary check-ups. They know a lot more than before, and the man's career will help them find him. The laboratory tests have also told them that both of the arms have been separated from the body at the same time and on the same day that he has been killed.

“Do you have any theories on who has done it?” Greg asks.

“Any, yes,” Sherlock says. “The violence of the act indicates that the perpetrator has low or no empathy, and that narrows down the possible suspects a bit. The problem is that most killers fit into that profile. Find the rest of the body and you’ll find the killer. If it’s someone the victim knew, it makes it easier and most likely he is—random killing is for serial killers, this is not _random_ , the killer has cut out his arms, so that clearly shows that there is some reason for the kill.”

“What kind of mess could a man like this get himself into that the result is this?” John wonders, looking at the pictures of the second arm. Greg wonders the same.

“Don’t underestimate him,” Sherlock says. “Everyone could do anything for power.”

“Or money,” says Greg.

“Or love,” says John. 

“There you have it,” says Sherlock.

“So, a married, forty-five to fifty, a caretaker,” Greg lists. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find out who he is.”

As it turns out it’s not hard at all. On the same day, a man fitting that description is reported missing by his wife. Anna MacLennan is forty-eight years old woman with kind, brown eyes, and her husband Duncan has been missing for three days. Duncan has worked as a caretaker for several schools and cemeteries for all of his life. Everything matches with the arms and Sherlock’s deductions; Duncan has no tattoos, but Anna describers a mole on his right arm that matches with one of the arms. 

It is not a pleasant conversation to have. They can’t be sure that the arms belong to Duncan MacLennan, but they are sure enough that they have to tell that possibility to Anna. She doesn’t take the news well, but who would? 

After his shift is over, he drives back home and sits in the parked car with his eyes closed for ten minutes. Meeting people that have been close to the victim is always horrible, but it makes him more determined to solve the case. Before meeting Anna MacLennan, the arms were just arms. Now they are arms of a man whose wife has become a widower. They need justice. And Greg can give it to them. 

His ten minutes might have gone on longer if his phone didn’t ring. It was Maggie with her monthly check-up call. She took her duties as a little sister very seriously.

“Hello,” Greg says and unfastens the seatbelt. 

“ _Hi,_ ” Maggie greets him with a smile on her voice. “ _What are you up to?_

“Nothing,” Greg says and steps out of the car. “Just got home from work.”

“ _How was your day?_ ” Maggie asks. Greg tells him vaguely about the case—he doesn’t mention the arms, Maggie has never liked the details of his work—and how he has been up from four in the morning. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Maggie laughs. “ _No wonder you coppers get retired at fifty-five_ ,” she jokes.

“Fuck off,” Greg replies. He goes into his apartment and realises he has forgotten to put the butter back into the fridge. “You’re just jealous.”

“ _For what? Waking up at four?_ ” Maggie asks laughing. “ _I did raise twins, I’ve done my four in the mornings already._ ”

“How are they?” Greg asks. 

“ _Busy with their lives_ ,” Maggie says, there is a tint of sadness in those words. Both of the twins have moved out, Thomas is studying in Edinburgh and Matthew moved to Berlin two years ago. Greg has last seen them over Christmas, but the next time will be in summer or next Christmas. 

“ _Anyway, Mum’s birthday is on the 28th_ ,” Maggie says. “ _You coming_?”

“Dunno,” Greg says, he really can’t say yet. “I’ll try.”

“ _She’ll be mad if you didn’t_ ,” Maggie says as if Greg didn’t know that. Their mother is a brisk woman, still, even as she’s turning seventy-three in two weeks. And Greg knows she will be mad if he couldn’t come to see her on her birthday. Maggie and their mother both live in Leeds, and Greg can almost hear Mum’s pissed Northern vowels cursing at him. 

“I know,” Greg says. “If nothing comes up, I’ll be there, promise.”

“ _Don’t promise me, promise her_ ,” Maggie says. “ _I know you’ll try. Mum thinks you hate it back here._ ”

“I don’t,” Greg says. It’s not a lie, he loves Leeds, but he loves London too. He loves the busy streets, and how big the city seems compared to Leeds. His honeymoon phase with London is long gone, and he doesn’t get amazed by the city like before. Leeds feels like home every time he goes there, but coming back home to London feels _right_ in a way Leeds has never felt. 

Mum has asked him time and time again if he will ever move back to Yorkshire, and Greg hasn’t been able to give her an answer. Maybe the dream once was to find a nice, quiet place in Leeds and spent the retirement there. But that dream has vanished in the past years. He likes his job too much to think about retirement yet—whatever Maggie says, he won’t be retiring at fifty-five—and living alone in Leeds does no longer feel like a dream, more like a nightmare. 

“ _Well, maybe you should visit more so that Mum won’t think that._ ”

“Since when have you sounded like Mum?” Greg asks. Maggie’s right, but Greg really doesn’t have the time to go back North every weekend. 

“ _Since now_ ,” Maggie groans. “ _I’m old._ ”

“You’re not old,” Greg assures her. She isn’t, but as she’s now forty and greying, and her husband is still a young 39 years old lad with better genes when it comes to hair, she has started to feel old. The fact that the twins have moved out isn’t helping much. 

“ _Yeah, yeah_ ,” Maggie says. “ _So what’re you up to tonight?_ ”

Greg suddenly remembers the meeting with Mycroft. At Mycroft’s home. He has been so sucked into the case and everything new that has come up, that the upcoming meeting has slipped out of his mind. 

“Um,” he starts. Maggie knows about Sherlock, _everyone_ knows about Sherlock, but she doesn’t know everything that has come with their friendship. Greg has found it difficult to explain everything. Ever since Sherlock came back it has been even harder. 

“I’m meeting with a friend,” he says finally. It’s probably the closes thing to the truth without him explaining the whole scenario to Maggie.

“ _A friend, huh?_ ” Maggie’s tone of voice is teasing.

“Yes, a friend,” Greg sighs. “I have those.”

“ _Do you now?_ ” Maggie says. Greg wishes she could see how he’s rolling his eyes. 

“Yes. And if you don’t stop, you won’t be counted as one.”

“ _Uh, scary_ ,” Maggie mocks him. 

Greg decides it’s best to change the subject. He asks about Maggie’s life, and she tells him about her ideas of how to renovate the second floor of her house, and that one of her friends, whose name Greg should have recognised but he doesn’t, has become a grandmother, and about the neighbours’ cat who has been sleeping on their patio for months now. She tells him about her wonderfully normal life, which doesn’t have murder and criminals as an everyday thing. Sometimes it’s nice to know that somewhere the biggest news has been the neighbours’ ginger cat, and the biggest problem is deciding on the paint colour for the second-floor bathroom walls.

*

At five to seven that evening Greg pays for his cab in front of the building Mycroft lives in. He realises he has no idea how he is supposed to get in. The building is so old that Greg is a bit scared to even touch anything. It takes him a few moments of just standing before he gathers his bravery and goes to see if there is some kind of clues by the door. There is; on the wall, there is a plate full of names and flat numbers, and one of them says: _Holmes_. Greg presses the button next to it, and the door makes a clicking sound as the lock opens. He goes in. 

He has assumed there would be a grand hall and a porter and a desk there, but instead, he steps into a narrow corridor. There are four doors there and a staircase. None of the doors is the right one so Greg goes to the stairs. At the end of the stairs, there is one door and on a tale there it says _Holmes_. There is no doorbell or knocker on the door, but the door is slightly open; a strip of warm yellow light comes from inside. Greg sighs. Of course, Mycroft would continue the overly dramatic fashion in his house. Normal people would have come to the door and welcome the visitor in but Mycroft Holmes seems to be above it all. 

Greg goes in and closes the door behind him. The expects a labyrinth of some kind, where he would have to navigate through to get to the right place, and then Mycroft would say that he is stupid and slow, because he has taken two minutes too long trying to get there. However, there is no labyrinth there. The entrance hall is narrow and the end of it there is an open door. It leads to a room that has another open door on the opposite side of it. Since Greg doesn’t see Mycroft in there, he goes to the other door. Behind it, there is a spacious room. Greg wants to call it a living room but it’s more like a drawing-room. The windows are tall and high up, and the curtains look heavy. Greg looks around him and tries very hard not to laugh out loud.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. That kind of rooms exists only in Downton Abbey. 

“Evening,” says Mycroft’s voice but it takes a moment for Greg to realise where the voice is coming from. There are a staircase and an interior balcony over the doorway. Mycroft comes down the stairs. Mycroft and the overly pompous design of the house fit in together, and Greg has never felt so out place in someone else’s house before. There probably is a servants’ hall somewhere, and Greg should be there. He has seen houses like this before, but only as DI Lestrade. Never as the normal fellow Greg. He doesn’t know people who live like this. 

Only that he _does_. 

“This is bloody ridiculous,” Greg says and tries not to sound offensive. “Who needs a flat like this?”

There is a slight smile in Mycroft’s lips. “This used to be an investment, I wasn’t supposed to live here myself, but I got quite attached to it over time.”

Greg would like to ask how much a place like this costs. He thinks there is probably six bedrooms and at least four bathrooms and fifteen hundred square feet. 

“What the fuck do you _do_ for a living?” Greg asks. 

As expected, Mycroft changes the subject. “Would you like to have something? Whisky?”

Greg only nods. Mycroft leads him to _another_ room, but it’s so much more normal looking than the first room. The furnishing looks like it hasn’t been upgraded since 1912, but there is a couch and two armchairs in front of a fireplace, and big bookcases on the walls. There are so many books no one could have read all of them, but then again, Mycroft is a Holmes, so maybe Greg shouldn’t assume anything. 

“You can sit down,” Mycroft says, and he sounds amused. Greg sits on the armchair and wonders how there probably is dust and sand on his jeans and how all that would rub onto the upholstery and after Greg leaves, Mycroft has to get it cleaned up in some fancy dry-cleaning place. Or maybe he has to burn it because Greg’s middle-class arse has ruined the chair altogether. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “Greg.”

Greg gets pulled back to reality in a fraction of a second. The way Mycroft says his name sounds weird, like the word in his mouth was some foreign language he has never used before. Mycroft is handing him a glass, and Greg takes it. He needs a drink. Or sixteen. 

“I really have to ask this,” Greg says after Mycroft has sat down. 

“Hm?”

“Has the Queen asked you to kill someone or did you rob a bank?” 

Mycroft lets out a huff of a laugh. “Neither,” he says. “It’s all about saving, good investments, shares and a bit of great lineage.”

“So you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” Greg says. 

Mycroft looks half amused, half offended. “You could say that.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Too bad no one ever taught me how to invest and save for stuff like _this_.”

“It’s never too late,” Mycroft says and sounds like a bank official.

Greg takes a moment to put himself back together. Even the picture frames look like they’ve probably costed more than Greg’s whole apartment. It’s not like he’s poor or anything, but he would never have that kind of money to spend. 

But he has not come here to be amazed by the house Mycroft lives in. 

“So,” Greg begins. “You wanted to rant.”

Mycroft looks at him and says nothing. He takes a sip out of his glass and takes a minute. 

“How much do you know about the MI6?” Mycroft asks. Greg shrugs. 

“What I’ve been told. Foreign intelligence service, James Bond, possibly Torchwood.”

Mycroft hums. “Torchwood doesn’t exist.”

Greg grins. “And that’s what someone who knows about Torchwood would say.”

“We don’t need Torchwood because we have MI6.”

Greg’s not sure if Mycroft’s joking. “To be honest, I know very little. I should probably know more,” he says. 

Mycroft leans back on his chair. “Not necessarily. As it’s said: ignorance is bliss.”

“Well, bliss it is then,” Greg says. “So, tell me.”

Mycroft says nothing. Greg tries to get something out of his expression, but Mycroft’s stony face is impermeable.

“Look,” Greg sighs. “You don’t _have_ to talk if you really don’t want to, but I can promise you I don’t go around telling the government’s secrets if that’s what you’re worried about. And I think—” Greg stops himself for a few seconds, he’s not sure how well Mycroft will take what he’s going to say. “I think it could be good for you to talk.”

Mycroft’s face shows nothing, but Greg notices how his shoulders relax. 

“In days like these, when the half of Europe is acting like seething rats behind the closed doors, and the United Kingdoms being in the middle of it all, I almost wish I would have taken some other road for myself,” Mycroft says.

“And the MI6? How it’s related to this?”

“Pertinently,” Mycroft says. “It doesn’t matter.”

Greg wants to take out his phone and Google all the things he doesn’t understand or has only a little knowledge of. He would like to have a part in this conversation, but he knows nothing. His focus has been—has always been—in the UK, in _London_ , he hasn’t had the time to be interested in other things. 

“General election,” Mycroft says suddenly.

“Sorry, what?”

“General election is held in May,” Mycroft explains. “Can you imagine what a mess they are every time?”

“Probably not,” Greg says truthfully. “I vote and I care about stuff but that’s all. I mean, what else could I even do, other than my job really. My weekdays don’t change with the Prime Minister, so, to be honest, I’m not very interested in the election.”

“I assume it’s nice to think that way,” Mycroft says, mostly to his glass. Greg snorts.

“Excuse me, did I come here to be judged?” he asks. He’s mostly amused.

“Apologies,” Mycroft says sincerely. 

Greg finds it hard to read Mycroft. Some people are easy and usually, Greg can tell when someone is trying to be unreadable, but with Mycroft, he isn’t sure. “Do you even _like_ your job?”

“Usually, yes,” Mycroft says. “But sometimes it all is just so imperfect and frustratingly slow,” he says.

“What is?”

“Europe.”

“Right,” Greg says slowly. “Well, maybe you should do something else then,” he says. Mycroft looks slightly confused. Greg grins.

“I mean, if you did something else, maybe you’d live in a normal house on a normal street. You know, as normal people do. Normal people who have normal jobs, that it.”

“I believe your definition of normality differs from mine,” Mycroft says.

“I think yours differs from ninety-eight percent of people,” Greg states. Mycroft doesn’t answer and Greg’s certain it’s because he knows Greg is right. 

“What do you do when you’re not working anyway?” Greg asks. He has a hard time imagining Mycroft doing anything _normal_. Mycroft has probably never seen a football match. Greg thinks the only sport Mycroft follows is rowing or sailing or golf, something only ridiculously rich people enjoy doing. 

It seems that the question is hard for Mycroft to answer, it takes Mycroft a long time to say anything. 

“In my line of work—” Mycroft starts, but Greg interrupts him.

“Oh, my God,” he laughs. “Don’t say you don’t have any free time.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Mycroft says. “Only that free time is an intangible construct since theoretically, I’m always available.”

“So what about the time you’re practically not available? Sleeping is not an answer.” 

Mycroft thinks again. Greg might actually get worried about him if it turns out he a. doesn’t have any free time or b. doesn’t do anything on it. 

“I believe I do what every normal person does,” Mycroft says eventually. Greg looks at him so long he explains. “I read,” Mycroft says.

“What, fifteen minutes before going to bed?” Greg jokes, but Mycroft looks nearly guilty. Sodding hell, did this man ever have fun? Greg struggles to imagine Mycroft doing anything normal, but he hasn’t realised it’s because there is nothing to imagine. The concern he feels surprises him. So maybe he hasn’t really spared a thought for Mycroft Holmes before since Mycroft has only been sort of a by-product that came with the strangeness of Sherlock, and _yes,_ he has thought—thinks, whatever— Mycroft is annoying and tends to rub him the wrong way, but seriously. A clever man like Mycroft should know how important it is to wind down occasionally. Maybe being _theoretically always available_ has burned up some wires in Mycroft’s brain that has supported the normal human behaviour and that’s why he’s so… himself.

“Fiction or non-fiction?” Greg asks, to get the topic off of the lack of entertainment in Mycroft’s life. He needs _hobbies_ , for fuck’s sake.

“Both,” Mycroft says. “Fiction mostly. Non-fiction is usually work-related.”

“Isn’t everything?” Greg says, and a little miracle happens as Mycroft actually _smiles_. It’s not the half-smile he often gives, nor the ironic one. It’s a genuine, actual smile and it looks rather good on him. Smiles do that.

“Not everything, no,” Mycroft says, then elucidates. “This isn’t.”

“I’m honoured,” Greg says, half-serious. “I think I couldn’t be part of any of your work things.”

“No,” Mycroft admits. 

Greg empties his glass. He’s still a little bit bemused about Mycroft’s home, but it has turned into curiosity and interest more than unbelief. Greg would like to know what kinds of medieval things the flat holds. There could be anything, Greg thinks. There could be anything from a swimming pool to a torture chamber there. He doesn’t know which one would be more likely. 

Lost in his thoughts, Greg accidentally yawns so hard his eyes start to water. It has been a long day for him, and Mycroft has probably has had even longer one. 

“Well then,” Mycroft says. “I have kept you too long.”

Greg almost goes into a nice guy mode and tells him _Nonsense_ , but those two fingers of whisky have made him feel heavy and sleepy. 

“Yeah,” Greg says. “It’s been a hell of a day.” He stands up and wonders where he should put the empty glass. Mycroft notices his hovering, stands and takes the glass from Greg. Mycroft then leads Greg back to the front door (which is good because Greg could’ve gotten lost in there) and few steps before the door he stops.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. Greg looks at him.

“For what?”

“This,” Mycroft answers not quite looking at Greg. Greg doesn’t know if it’s because Mycroft feels embarrassed for some reason, or because the situation is so strange.

“Don’t mention it,” Greg says and means it. “Really.”

Mycroft says nothing but the expression on his face changes fast in a millisecond as if he tries to stick with one and hide the others. 

“Right,” Greg says, he feels awkward all of a sudden. “See you.” Mycroft nods at him and Greg goes out from the door. 

He takes one step into the corridor, stops, as thoughts go through his mind way faster than they should, considering his tiredness. 

“The hell with it,” he whispers out loud, turns on his heels and knocks on the door. Mycroft opens it in haste. 

“Look,” Greg says, before he changes his mind, before Mycroft gets to say anything. “If you want, we could do this again. I mean, not to assume anything, but I think you don’t do this very often. Or like, _ever_. But just, I’m, as you put it, theoretically always available if you needed someone to talk to.”

Mycroft just looks at him.

“Alright,” Greg says, _goddammit_ really it was like talking to a brick wall. “See you, bye.” He leaves and hears the door closing behind him, but only when he’s at the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> irl things in his chapter: plane crash in Taiwan 6th of Feb 2015 (from "Sherlock ask Greg, then turns to Mycroft" to "And it's already dealt with".) and shootings in Copenhagen, Denmark 14th-15th of Feb 2015 (from "Mycroft probably knows Greg's up" to "'Morning,' Greg says to phone")  
> \---  
> Also, i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/katastrofeja) now? Come say hi.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! and happy pride month from this queer! thank you again for the comments and kudos and stuff! it makes writing a lot easier :') but here we go again. this chapter turned out the be the longest yet, phew. I made a deal with myself that I wouldn't go past 10k per chapter but oh well, something happened. this chapter started with the work title "Mycroft is a sugar daddy" but it really is more like "90% backstory". 
> 
> There is yet again a real-life event that I've used, I'll put it in the endnotes so that you can check it out if you feel like <3

Greg rotates a pen around his middle finger. There is a cup of coffee on his desk but it has gone cold. Stupid fucking arms, he thinks. It has been three days since Sherlock had found the second arm, and now they have found the rest of the body. The Dog Support Unit found it from a warehouse, and the body has been recognised as Duncan MacLennan, a forty-nine years old caretaker. He has been stabbed and even before the autopsy, they are quite sure he has died from the stabbing. His wife has been a mess ever since, it has been very hard to get something out of her now, and Greg understands that but it doesn’t _help_ them at all. 

The forensic team has done their magic in the warehouse and they have found all kind of leads, the place has been full of DNA and fingerprints, and now all they can do is _wait_. Greg loathes waiting. 

There is a knock on the door, Greg says _Come in_ and turns quickly to see who is it. It’s—of all people—Anthea. 

“Good day, sir,” Anthea says.

“Hi,” Greg says, it’s the most he can manage out of his confusion. “What’re you doing here?” He means it as a question, not inquiry, but his tone might have been a bit off, as Anthea looks a bit offended. But first of all: who the heck has let her in? It’s the Scotland Yard for crying out loud. It probably has something to do with Mycroft, but that only annoys Greg more.

Anthea closes the door behind her, comes to Greg’s desk and puts a package on it. Greg raises his eyebrows at her.

“Greetings from Mr Holmes,” she says. Greg has figured that much out himself. “And an invitation to have dinner at 6 PM tomorrow.”

Greg leans back on his chair and almost tips it over. “Sorry, what?”

Anthea takes a breath, her smile is tight. “Greeting from Mr Holmes. And dinner tomorrow at six in the afternoon.”

“Right,” Greg says. He tries really hard not to look at the packet on his desk. “You can tell Mycroft I don’t know if I can go anywhere at that time tomorrow.”

Anthea has her phone out, she types something and doesn’t raise her glance. “Mr Holmes works it out so you can go,” she says.

Greg clears her throat. “Does he?” Greg realises too late Anthea is that type of a person who doesn’t take no for an answer. 

“I can’t promise anything, Mycroft knows that,” Greg tries.

“I’ll tell him you said yes,” Anthea says.

“What,” Greg yelps. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

Anthea shows her phone. “I told him already. There will be a car for you at quarter past.”

“No there won’t,” Greg says. “I’ll come on my own.”

Anthea looks at him with her head slightly tilted, her expression says _Want to bet on it._

“Fuck.” Greg gives up and throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Let’s do what Mycroft wants.”

Anthea smiles. “Good,” she says. “Good day, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She turns to leave and as she does, Greg finally looks at the package. It’s wrapped up neatly with brown paper. It’s probably the neatest thing in the whole office. Greg wonders for a moment if Mycroft has wrapped it up himself, but that is probably the least important thing. Greg takes the packet to his hand. It’s heavier than he thought, in Anthea’s hands it hasn’t looked so heavy. Greg turns the packet on his hands. There is a small card attached to it, Greg takes it, reads it and sighs.

_Thank you again._

— _MH_

Bloody hell. Greg looks at the card and laughter comes out without his consent. He has guessed right. The second he has seen Anthea in his office, he has known something like this would come out of it. Greg thinks it has something to do with Mycroft’s lack of normal life—normal people don’t send their PA to give out presents. Greg takes a pair of scissors out of the desk draw. He doesn’t want to rip the paper, it’s so fricking _neat._ He makes a cut on to the thin end of the package and folds out the paper.

“What—”

There is a wooden box. The dark wood looks expensive, expensive on the side of never-in-Greg’s-life, and on the lid, there is a picture of a knight on a dragon, and text _English Whiskey Co_ and _Founders Private Cellar_. Greg doesn’t know if he should be shocked or amused. He decides on the latter. He grabs the card again and turns it around looking for something, an explanation maybe. There’s nothing other than the neatly written text. Greg opens up the box. There is a bottle there, and with one glance Greg can tell it’s not your everyday whiskey. He closes the box again and turns up the computer. He writes the name from the lid in the search bar, and when he gets to a web page he doesn’t know if he’s amused anymore.

The bottle costs almost two hundred pounds. Greg checks and re-checks if it is the same one. One hundred and eighty-five fucking pounds. What the fuck, Mycroft Holmes.

Greg takes out his phone, opens up the messaging app and starts to write a message when a curious thought comes to him. Is Mycroft _bribing_ him? After that kind of present, he really can’t say no to anything Mycroft would ask from him. He puts his phone back down. He’s overthinking it. Clearly, it’s only because Mycroft doesn’t know how to act like a normal human being. It’s not like Greg has made a huge sacrifice meeting with Mycroft. Perhaps it’s just so abnormal for Mycroft that now he thinks he has to pay back somehow. Greg sighs. He’ll thank Mycroft and then when he sees him the next time, he’ll talk about it. 

_Thank you for the whisky._

There. Greg looks at the words. He could say something else but he struggles to know how to say anything and not sound like the cost of the bottle has shocked him. Because it has. He adds a few words.

_Thank you for whiskey. You shouldn’t have._

Greg settles for that and sends the message to Mycroft. He puts down his phone and wonders if the number he has is Mancroft's work phone. It probably is, and now Greg has sent a quite personal text to it. The phone is probably part of some bigger phone network and now the Cabinet ministers or MI6 agents are looking at Greg’s message with amazement. 

Greg tries to focus on the case. He really needs to focus on it, but his focus is pulled back to the wood box, it’s like a magnet. For fuck’s sake, seriously. Greg gives up, for real this time. He leans back on his chair. Greg doesn’t like the thought that maybe he has accidentally made himself a personal human relation assistant to Mycroft. In Mycroft’s world, it may be totally normal to remember the people you have had a forty-minute chat with almost two hundred pound whiskey. In Greg’s world, no one gives out that expensive things, ever. He wonders if he could pass the bottle on—what would Mum say if he came to her birthday with the costliest whiskey he and she have ever seen. It would be funny, but his mum probably doesn’t drink whiskey. At least not something that expensive. She would put it on the bookshelf and only look at it. 

With the first opportunity, Greg takes the box into his car, and at home, he hides it behind the books on the bookshelf. He wouldn’t like to even look at it. 

The next day at twenty to six Greg is sitting in his office with a coat on. How uncouth it would be if he texted Mycroft with some excuse? It’s not that he doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to have the conversation about money-related boundaries. Greg has _offered_ it, what, a friendship? Something like that. And as far as he knows, friendship doesn’t involve paybacks. Besides, Greg believes he would like to have a _friendship_ with Mycroft, it would be a nice change from the interaction where Mycroft only ordered him to do whatever and whenever he pleased. A case in Dartmoor comes to mind. Greg has to hide a groan thinking about that. 

Greg has been up for the little hours again, thinking about the possible scenarios of A Dinner With Mycroft Holmes. It’s possible that his and Mycroft’s idea of dinner is very different. Greg enjoys, probably a bit too much, everything that is easy, cheap and greasy. Mycroft probably likes expensive, French, two Michelin stars with big plates and tiny portions. Greg knows nothing about that. He likes to have his dinner out of a takeaway container. It has been years since the last time he has eaten in a restaurant. Last time has been with Cora, it was at the time when anniversaries still meant something. And those restaurants they used to go were nothing fancy, just someplace you could get champagne if you wanted, but Greg didn’t need to use a suit. 

He should probably go. He’s quite sure that if he isn’t waiting there at the right time, Mycroft would send some spook to get him. He sighs, stands up and leaves his office. He goes out of the building, gets himself a cigarette and lights it up. The weather is shitty again, drizzling rain and cloudy skies for days on end. It’s England, he should be used to it, but some natural vitamin D would do him good. 

He’s only halfway done with his smoke when a black car stops on the street in front of him. Greg stays still and tries to drag his smoke as long as possible. He’ll make them wait.

A window at the back of the car opens and Mycroft’s unamused face comes to sight. 

“No hurry,” he says, the sarcasm is thick in his voice. 

Well, this is a good start, Greg thinks. He doesn’t hurry at all, he smokes the cigarette to the very end and only then he decides he’s ready. Time is only sixteen to six or something, Mycroft’s early and Greg can have his fun. Greg goes to the car and opens up the door before the driver gets a chance to get it for him. It’s a weird kind of a game he’s playing. 

He sits down on the back seat of the car and fastens the seat belt.

“Hm.”

Greg looks up to Mycroft who doesn’t look back. Greg frowns.

“Yes?” he encourages. 

“How—are you?” Mycroft asks, his tone is tight. Greg bites his tongue, it sounds like the questions pains Mycroft. 

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Greg grins.

Mycroft, surprising no one, says nothing.

“The whisky was a bit pricey,” Greg says then. He has practised this. He thinks that Mycroft and Sherlock are similar in at least one condition; if you want to get something through to them, you need to use your words, and you need to use them as clearly as possible. No circling around the topic, but straight, true words. 

“Like, actually a bit too much,” Greg says. Mycroft still doesn’t answer, but Greg is sure the point has been taken. Though, he would love to get some reaction out of Mycroft. If he could just swear a little, that would be quite amazing. 

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Greg says then. “Nothing particularly exciting happens to me anyway.” He doesn’t sound at all bitter, which is a good performance from him. He should probably go out more, for example, he could go and see the Watsons and the baby. And maybe he could go visit Sherlock and clean up the living room for him since that’s the safest room in the flat. 

“Is that good?” Mycroft asks. Bloody hell, Greg thinks, how did Mycroft make it sound like the most awkward conversation in his life?

“Is it good that nothing exciting happens?” Greg asks. Mycroft nods. “I guess. Why you ask?”

Mycroft pauses to think. “Just wanted to know.”

Greg takes a breath. “Okay. Right. What’s going on here?” he asks. He tries to explain _here_ which a vague hand movement, but Mycroft doesn’t get it. 

“Here?” 

“Well, dinner.”

Mycroft straightens in the seat. That seems a bit impossible to Greg, he doesn’t think it’s possible to sit any straighter.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Greg narrows his eyes at Mycroft. “You already _did_.”

Mycroft either doesn’t realise it or he doesn’t care.

Right. Mycroft clearly doesn’t know how things like that work. For some reason, it doesn’t surprise him, but he is slightly taken aback because it seems that Mycroft knows even less about human relations than Sherlock. Sherlock at least can pretend to act like an ordinary bloke. But it seems like Mycroft has come from a different planet altogether when it comes to humane things. That shouldn’t be a surprise—Greg knows Mycroft has used the London CCTV network to spy on Sherlock when doing it himself has been too much caring. Greg has though it’s a bit creepy. Now he’s not that surprised. 

“Alright,” Greg says, just to get something out of his mouth before the silence between them gets actually awkward. “Where’re we going? Am I underdressed?” He seriously hasn’t yet realised that joking around Mycroft doesn’t go well, and yet again his joke doesn’t land right. Mycroft looks at him from head to toes.

“No,” Mycroft says. 

“Okay.”

Thanks to all that is mighty, the drive isn’t a long one. The driver stops the car and Greg gets out. It is a restaurant for sure, but it’s not too posh. It has an English name and looks normal enough from the outside at least. It’s not some chain restaurant but he doesn’t see a Michelin star either. 

“This way,” Mycroft says and nods Greg to follow him inside. Greg feels only a tiny bit hysterical. There are not many people in the restaurant, and Greg can’t decide if it’s good or bad. Maybe a bit of both. Fewer people means fewer people are witnessing if Greg makes a total ass of himself. But fewer people also mean he’s more self-conscious.

Mycroft leads him to a table. Greg is rather happy that it’s not that kind of a restaurant where a man in a tuxedo helps you to your table and put out the chairs for you and speak Italian or French or Portuguese or just some other language Greg doesn’t know. The table is apart from the others in the hall, it’s nicer that way—at least you didn’t have to be afraid someone is going to bump into you on their way to the loos. Greg takes off his goat and hangs it on the back of his chair. Mycroft folds his coat on to the table next to him. 

“Well,” Greg says and almost bites his tongue. “This is nice.”

“I thought you’d liked it,” Mycroft says. 

“You thought or you deduced?” Greg asks. Mycroft doesn’t answer and that is an answer enough. “So what would you like?”

“Privacy,” Mycroft says.

“I don’t mind privacy.”

“And a Michelin star,” Mycroft adds. Greg snorts.

“I knew it.”

Mycroft almost smiles. It’s enough for now, Greg thinks. 

A waitress comes to take their drink order and without asking Mycroft makes an order, some wine with a French name and obviously, Mycroft’s French is perfect. Greg looks at the wine menu and once the waitress leaves, Greg points at the prices.

“Nothing here is two hundred quid,” he says. Mycroft glances at him with an unreadable expression. Greg ignores him and turns the menu to the actual food section. The prices seem normal enough, they are on a range that doesn’t mean you have to be minting money, but a normal nine to five work will do. Be that as it may, Greg isn’t feeling experimental. He chooses lasagna. It’s safe and most likely eatable. When the waitress comes back with the white wine, they are both ready to order. Mycroft orders seafood.

Greg tastes the wine. It’s _fine_ , probably not something he would drink on his own, but then again, he doesn’t really drink wines, only on a rare occasion and if there is a reason for it. Sometimes when he feels like cooking something else than fish fingers, he might have a glass or two. Red wine with a good stake is totally worth it, but Greg doesn’t have the time or energy to do that very often. 

“So,” Greg says when they are waiting for the food. “What’s up with all this?” He tries it again. Mycroft looks slightly uneasy. 

“Isn’t this what _normal people_ do when they’re not working?” Mycroft asks, his tone is too light for Greg to buy it.

“This?”

“Dinner.”

“I guess,” Greg says, fuck if he knows, he hasn’t done _dinner_ in years. “Alright then. Let’s get on with it then. How’s the world?”

Mycroft looks at him for a long time. “The world is having a climate crisis. There is a war in Afghanistan. Election happening soon in the United States. People die from hunger in developing countries.”

Greg tries not to laugh. It’s all true, but surely Mycroft knows he hasn’t meant that exactly.

“That’s nice,” Greg grins. “Brilliant.”

“Not quite,” Mycroft says. “But that’s what it is.”

“Yep,” Greg nods. “But there’s no, I don’t know, a World War Three in the near future?”

Mycroft thinks for a moment and Greg doesn’t think that is a good sign. “Most likely no,” Mycroft says. “Not in this decade.”

“Right. Well, that’s a relief.” At that point, the waitress comes back with two plates. She gives Greg his lasagna—if he didn’t know it was lasagna, he wouldn’t have guessed it from the food he was given—and Mycroft his whatever he is having. They thank her, and Greg takes a fork to dig in.

“Is it?” Mycroft asks.

“Nope,” Greg admits. “So, the world isn’t ending, is it?”

“It’s not,” Mycroft says. “It—goes around.”

“That’s good,” Greg says and tries the food. It’s good, the texture is a bit off, but otherwise, it’s fine. It’s not as good as his mother’s lasagna is, but it’s plausible. Fine. Nothing too special. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. He hasn’t even started eating yet, as he is folding the napkins and doing whatever posh thing he does. It’s clear that Mycroft doesn’t usually go to places like this, but Greg appreciates that he has chosen a place that would not be too much for Greg. Even if it’s too little for Mycroft. 

“Nothing exciting happened today?” Greg asks. He knows it might be a bit of a stretch from his part to wait for an actual answer. But if this is what Greg thinks it is—Mycroft taking the offer to _talk_ —it would be best for Greg to try and talk. 

“There was a tiny crisis this morning as there was a high risk for a terrorist attack on Heathrow airport,” Mycroft says.

“Was there?” Greg asks. “I haven’t heard of it.”

“It was meant to be so,” Mycroft explains. “It was high, but not critical. We had it under control.”

“I bet you did,” Greg mutters.

There is a silence for a few mouthfuls. Greg isn’t sure if the white wine works with the lasagna, but he doesn’t want to point it out either. Maybe he should stick with water anyway, he’s basically still on duty.

“How has your day been so far?” Mycroft asks. It’s funny how he can sound interested, but his body language screams how uncomfortable he is. Greg doesn’t know which one to believe. His gut says the body language is more trustful, but it’s Mycroft.

“Fine,” Greg says. “Nothing special. Just paperwork, really. We have a case in standstill so.”

“Is it about the arms?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes,” Greg says. “We found the body, but still nothing about the killer. There are too many leads and at this moment the whole investigation is a bloody big game of limitation.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft says. “That could be very helpful.”

Greg raises his eyebrows and looks at Mycroft for a moment. “If you know anything, you could just—”

“I don’t,” Mycroft says. “As said, I don’t do that.”

“Oh, you mean you can just turn the thing off?” Greg asks mocking. “I don’t believe you.”

“No,” Mycroft says. “I can’t _turn it off_. But I don’t use it to solve crimes.”

“Too bad. You and Sherlock would make a sick pair of detectives together.”

Mycroft chokes on a piece of food. “Please, I would like to keep my sanity.”

Greg snorts and drinks the wine. He can’t decide if it’s good or bad, and Mycroft, who really can’t turn it off as it seems, notices it.

“Not good?” he asks.

Greg hums. “I’m not sure, actually. I guess it’s fine.”

“I think it is rather,” Mycroft says. 

“Do you know a lot about wines then?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft says. “It comes with the job. This is Europe we’re living in. Our culture revolves around alcohol in every country. It makes a good impression to know something about it.”

“So basically every decision in Europe is made drunk?” Greg asks. 

“Well,” Mycroft says, but doesn’t elucidate. “But to be fair, usually it’s Anthea who keeps me updated on what is good and which countries prefer what.”

“She sounds like a lifesaver,” Greg says. “And she really doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?”

“That she does not,” Mycroft says, and Greg thinks he can hear the pride in his voice. It’s nice to know Mycroft appreciates his PA. 

“Are you enjoying your meal?” Mycroft asks, like a normal person.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Not as good as Mum’s but nothing ever is.”

“Good,” Mycroft says. “Your mother then. What kind of a person is she?”

“I don’t know, a normal mum,” Greg says, smiling. “Though she curses more than I do, which says something. She was a librarian for basically all her life until she retired. She’s very proud of her roots, you know. She takes Yorkshire very seriously. She hates the Beatles, but will make anyone listen to the first Queen album for hours if she can.”

“She sound,” Mycroft starts then stops. It takes him a bit too long to continue: “Lovely.”

“She is, really,” Greg says.

Mycroft is silent for a moment. “And your father? How did he die?”

Greg doesn’t ask how Mycroft knows his father is dead. Mycroft probably knows everything about him and is just asking to be nice. The information about his dad’s death is out there and within Mycroft’s resources, it wouldn’t be too hard to find.

“He had a heart attack, it was nine years ago,” Greg says. “Mum wasn’t home at the time, so there was nothing to do.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Again, Greg notices how Mycroft’s words and body language go on different roads. He doesn’t want to point it out or take too much notice on it, but it makes him wonder why it seems to be so hard for Mycroft. 

“I guess your parents are something quite different compared to mine,” Greg says. He doesn’t say it to sound mean, he just thinks it’s something that goes with the Holmes family. He doesn’t think people like Mycroft and Sherlock are produced by ordinary people.

“I would believe they aren’t that different;” Mycroft says. “Our mother used to be a mathematician. Our father worked as a mechanical. He likes classic cars.”

“Do they do the deduction thing?” Greg asks. “I mean you and Sherlock both do, so it seems like to me.”

“A bit. But not as much. They are slightly more observant than _normal_ people,” Mycroft tells him. 

“Right. So who’s the best one of you?” Greg asks. Mycroft doesn’t answer to that. 

They eat their meals, and by the time they’re done eating, Greg really needs to get back to Scotland Yard. He has promised to be back in an hour and he has been forty-five minutes already. They go outside, and as they wait for the car to arrive, Greg takes out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

“You up for one?” he asks Mycroft, tilting the pack of smokes towards him. Mycroft thanks and takes one.

If Greg makes a list of his favourite cigarettes of the day, the post-dinner one would be in the second place. The best one would be the one he has with his second cup of coffee, just before he goes to work. It’s his four minutes of peace and quiet before the day starts. 

“When did started smoking?” Greg asks. “You don’t seem the type that goes through a rebellious stage in teens and years later finds themselves hooked in nicotine.” That’s surely how Greg has done. The eighties were a bit rough. 

“Hmm,” Mycroft hums around the cigarette. “It’s the job.”

“What is the job?” Greg asks. He has been fine not knowing for years, but he is curious. After seeing Mycroft’s home the curiosity for his job has just gone worse. 

Mycroft doesn’t answer for a long moment and Greg thinks he won’t get any kind of answer from him. “It’s a bit of everything,” he says finally.

“Everything of _what_?” Greg is pushing it.

“Everything,” Mycroft says. “For the time being mostly the British government and the SIS.”

“That seems like a lot.”

Mycroft looks at his shoes. “It can be sometimes.”

“Well,” Greg says. “I hope this helped.”

They smoke in silence for a moment. The car arrives almost the exact second Mycroft drops his half-smoked cigarette on the ground.

“Come on,” Mycroft says and waves towards the car. “We’ll take you back to Scotland Yard.”

Greg sits on the back seat of the car. It seems too pompous to Greg, the whole black car with dimmed windows, the driver, the sitting on the back. It bothers him. Greg wonders if anything like that ever bothered Mycroft.

The drive back is a little different. Mycroft’s phone rings at the first traffic tights. Mycroft mouths his apologies to Greg and answers the call with a firm: “Holmes.” Greg tries to listen to the phone call, but Mycroft speaks very little. It’s probably because Greg is present. Mycroft only makes _hmm_ and _ah-aa_ sounds, the only words he speaks are: “Very well, sir.”

Greg’s imagination is running wild. He tries to think of someone who would call Mycroft at that time of day. Maybe it’s someone from the Royal Family, that doesn’t even seem that impossible. Greg’s certain they’ve had afternoon tea in the Buckingham Palace at least once. They are probably on first name bases with the Queen. After a few more _hmm_ s Mycroft ends the call. 

“My apologies,” he says putting the phone back into his coat pocket. “The work doesn’t look at the time.”

“No worries,” Greg says. The car turns on the Horse Guards Avenue. “This was nice,” he says. He thinks for a moment before asking: “Is this going to be a regular thing?”

“If it seems necessary,” Mycroft replies. What would be counted as necessary, that he doesn’t say.

“Alright,” Greg says. “Well, next time just ask. You don’t have to bribe me.”

“I was not a bribe,” Mycroft says. 

“Yeah, well, it could have been,” Greg says. “I’m just—people don’t do that really.”

“Do what?” Mycroft asks sharply.

“You know, people don’t just go around and buy expensive, like really unnecessary expensive stuff to say thank you,” Greg says. “Don’t do it again. I don’t _need_ anything.”

“Very well,” Mycroft says. “I’ll be seeing you,” he says, and his tone is quite clearly stating get the hell out of the car. Greg doesn’t. 

“I don’t mean—” he starts but stumbles upon his words. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters out loud. “Right. Mycroft. Listen.”

Mycroft just looks at him.

“I asked if you wanted to talk, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, face blank and emotionless. 

“You know why? Because _obviously_ , you had a rough day and the other day you _told_ me you had a bad day. And I thought it would be nice, needed, I don’t know, healthy for you, or everyone, to talk about stuff. And we’ve known each other like ten years or summat. Or I guess ‘knowing’ is too big of a word but you get what I’m saying, don’t you?”

Mycroft nods slowly.

“Right. What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to pay me back. I’m not some European executive you have to fawn with your knowledge of alcohol and culture and whatever that is you do at work. Because this ain’t work,” Greg says and waves his hand between them to demonstrate. “I offered because I wanted to. Not to have some kind of barter.” Greg isn’t sure if Mycroft gets what he’s trying to say, because Mycroft’s face shows nothing. 

“But,” Greg says, he’s really trying here. “This was nice. Just don’t try to bribe me because it doesn’t work that way. I’m a fucking copper, _I_ don’t work that way.”

That makes Mycroft’s stony face break a little. A win for Greg.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

And that is all. Greg waits for more, but nothing else comes out of his mouth.

“Alright,” Greg says and unfastens his seatbelt. “I need to go. Thanks for the company.”

“Sure,” says Mycroft. “Good day.”

“Yeah, you too,” Greg says, opens the door and steps out of the car. Well, he thinks as the car drives away, that went well. He has no idea if his point has been taken, but he has tried. 

*

Sometimes closing a case is a grand event and it can feel _so_ good and it feels like he has a purpose in his life, when he gets to solve something big. And sometimes closing a case can feel so anticlimactic and even frustrating, that it would probably feel less so if the case never got solved. 

The armless man is one of the latter. The crime itself has been weird and _big_ and it has clearly taken a lot of time and planning to do. But the motive is probably one of the stupidest things Greg has ever heard.

They don’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve it. When the lab reports come, it’s clear who has done it: a known criminal. This is his first murder, but the earlier charges have been drugs, an armed robbery and an assault. Yes, the world needs justice and the killer’s identity doesn’t downshift the crime or the loss Duncan MacLennan’s wife and other family and friends have suffered, but it’s so _worthless_ it makes Greg see red.

They find the killer easy once they’ve got his DNA from the container. His DNA has been everywhere in there, he hasn’t even tried to clean it up. When he’s taken to Scotland Yard for questioning, he’s high, but not high enough not to tell them why he has killed MacLennan. 

Duncan MacLennan had been a caretaker of various buildings in Central London, and one of them has had Ian Wilson's hiding place for his drugs. Long story short, MacLennan had to clean the place, he had happened upon the drugs. He had taken them with him and they think his goal had been to bring them to the police. There were 100 grams worth of cocaine Wilson was supposed to sell. In the street market that 100 grams are around 3,500 pounds. It would have probably gone much easier if MacLennan got to go to the police, but on his way Wilson caught him. He had come to the hideout to get the drugs, and seen MacLennan there. It has been easily figured even for Ian Wilson, who was, in his own words, _A bit high_ at the time, that the caretaker and the missing drugs were connected. He had panicked, killed MacLennan by stabbing him three times, put him in the back of his car and driven away.

What came to the arms was a bit difficult. For Wilson, it had been clear that MacLennan wasn’t working alone—by which factors had suggested that, he couldn’t tell. So, as Sherlock had deduced, the arms were a warning. XX had been lurking around the place he had left the first arm. It had turned out that the first arm was left at the building the drugs were. He had seen the arm being found and heard the call to police. As his plan had gone wrong, he had placed the second arm to another place. This time he hadn’t realised who had taken it away since it had been one of Sherlock’s homeless people. After that Ian Wilson had thought the message had been delivered to the right people, and he had been sloppy. He had left the rest of Duncan MacLennan to the warehouse he had kept him for a week, and gone to the streets with his 100 grams of cocaine. 

When they have taken him to custody, he has had almost all of it on him. The only good thing about it all is that the court case is going to be easy. They have his confession, and they will take it again when he’s sober, so his intoxication doesn’t affect the statement. He will be charged with possession of drugs as well as murder. 

It’s not exciting, and it’s not easy to understand how the mind of a drug addict works. There is no impressive plan for it all, there are only impulsive actions. It’s messy and unsatisfying. Greg tries to remind himself that messy and random killings are way better than for example serial killers. Those are messy in a whole new way. He has come across a few serial killers on his time, and every time they left him feeling weird. If it’s hard for him to understand the impulsive murder, it’s ten times harder for him to understand how a mind of a serial killer works. Serial killers have their way of doing things, but those cases are the ones that feel _so_ good to close. But they are also the ones he wouldn’t like to have ever. 

Murder is messy. And as much as Greg likes his job, he sometimes wishes there was less murder in the city. If he could determine what kind of crimes he would be solving, there would be only clean and easy robberies and no dead people. Ever. 

But it’s London. And in London, there is murder and killings and accidents as well as clean and easy robberies. 

*

A few days later Greg gets a call from Sherlock. He hasn’t heard of him for a moment so the call comes as a pleasant surprise. And most importantly, Sherlock is calling because he needs Greg's help. 

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Greg says because _yeah,_ he’s rather pleased with this. 

“ _This is not the time,_ ” Sherlock says. Greg can hear the wind, it makes a rustling noise. “ _Remember the case I had? The man who went missing and had already been officially dead for 20 years?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _I’ve found him,_ ” Sherlock says. “ _Or my people have. Never mind, he’s dead._ ”

“How?” Greg asks. 

“ _Shot_ ,” Sherlock says. “ _It makes no sense, there was nothing interesting about him. But someone has shot him. In the head. That’s no accident, that’s intentional. Who would want to kill a normal man?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Greg says. “Killers?”

Sherlock scoffs. 

“What you need me for?” Greg asks, mostly just to make Sherlock say it because he is already up and ready to go.

“ _There is a man_ ,” Sherlock says, slowly. “ _Dead. Isn’t it the police’s job to take care of that?_ ”

“Where is he?”

“ _The Isle of Dogs, just by the Island Gardens. Obviously, he’s not been killed here, someone, the killer most likely, has brought him here. He’s been shot about a week ago I’d say by the state of him, but brought here today or last night at maximum. He’s not out in the open, but not very well hidden. Also, this is London, and Island Gardens is a rather busy place. I think the killer has wanted him to be found._ ”

Greg is already lost. “Can you say that again?”

“ _Island Gardens. Not killed here, someone brought him here._ ”

Every now and then there will be a body that has come out of nowhere, but usually, they are random, not something that has been under investigation. It has been weeks since the first time Greg has heard of this missing man of Sherlock’s.

“ _Are you listening?_ ” 

“Yes,” Greg says hastily. “Look, text me the location, I’ll be there in max thirty minutes. I need to make another call now. Don’t do anything.”

“ _What would I do?_ ” Sherlock asks innocently.

“Exactly,” Greg says and ends the call. He makes the necessary calls, gets a forensic team together, and gets going.

It takes twenty-seven minutes since the end of the call for Greg to arrive at the location Sherlock has texted him. Sherlock is waiting for them, his collars up and hair ruffled by the wind. He shows them the place where the man has been found. It’s not pretty, as it really seems that the man has been dead for some time already. 

“How long was he missing?” Greg asks Sherlock.

“Almost four weeks,” Sherlock says. “Obviously he has been dead for a week or so, so three weeks.”

“And do you have any idea where he has been in those three weeks?”

“No,” Sherlock says, he looks troubled by that thought. “His wife, as I told you, gave me the name of a man who has been dead since 1996. And I couldn’t find anything about him with that name, no friends or relatives, so someone has made a good job making sure no one finds out anything.”

“How they can be married then?” Greg asks. “You can’t marry a dead person.”

“They aren’t married,” Sherlock says. “But apparently if you’re sixty it’s more inconvenient to say wife and husband than girlfriend and boyfriend.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Five-ish years,” Sherlock says. “But the real question is why he has taken that name back. It’s obvious it has been _his_ name, but why he has been declared dead in 1996.”

“Have you told the wife-girlfriend about this already?” Greg asks and nods towards the body.

“No,” Sherlock says. “I thought that was your job.”

Greg sighs. “Right. Can you get her to come to the station?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, takes out his phone and sends a text. “Tell me what you find, I have other things to do than just stand here waiting for you to do your—whatever.”

Greg would like to let Sherlock go. He’s no use for him if he gets annoyed. He’ll just drive Greg mad in fifteen minutes and then he’ll have to fight the urge to punch or gag him. Every now and then there will be a case even Sherlock Holmes can’t solve. It’s rare for sure, but it happens. Greg hates those cases he can’t close, so he can only imagine how it feels for Sherlock when he gets himself involved in a case that is too tricky for him. 

“Do you have _anything_?” Greg asks. “Or have you been just looking for him without any clues whatsoever?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffs. “There are letters someone has send him before and after he went missing.”

“Brilliant,” Greg says. “Let’s take a look at them then.”

They go back to Baker Street where Sherlock has the letters. There are three of them, all handwritten on a nice, expensive-looking paper. They are in ziplock bags, which is a lot more than Greg would have expected from Sherlock. Sherlock has a habit of touching _everything_ with his bare hands. The forensic lab has Sherlock’s fingerprints and DNA automatically excluded on the evidence they know Sherlock has been involved with.

“So has someone been threading him?” Greg asks, looking at the letters. The first one on the pile has only two lines on the paper: _You can’t hide from me, I know what you lot are like._ “What do they mean by ‘you lot’?”

“Something to do with his earlier life,” Sherlock says. “It indicates that the victim has been a part of something, like a group or a specific profession or hobby.”

“I need to bring there to a specialist,” Greg says, gathering the letters to his hands. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. Greg sighs.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says. “Give me.”

“A man, in his mid-sixties, the letters R and S are the ones they used to teach at school back in the fifties and sixties. He’s an introvert, doesn’t have many friends, intuitive, most likely paranoid or very sensitive to criticism.”

“Fuck off,” Greg scorns. “How you can see all that from a bunch of letters?”

“They tell everything,” Sherlock says. “John’s handwriting tells he is sentimental, people-oriented, needy for attention. Mycroft’s handwriting tells most of the things he tries to hide. Open-minded, sceptical, shy, tense all the time.”

“Do I even want to know?” Greg asks dryly.

“Rebellious, open-minded, adaptable, extroverted. But yours changes when you get anxious or stressed, it becomes neat, tinier, and your L’s starts to look funny _and_ your R’s and N’s start to look alike to that point that the nameplate by your office door says DI Lestnade.”

Greg groans. “It makes me so angry you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right,” Sherlock says.

“So, mid-sixties? Could the killer, or the one who sent the letters be a school friend or someone from his childhood?” Greg asks. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock says. “What is sure is that he has known the killer. The letters say that much. And he was shot in the head, so he has faced the killer when he has been killed. _That_ ’s personal.Too bad he’s dead so we can’t ask him who it was.”

“Right,” Greg says, looks at the letters and frowns. “What kind of people get declared dead and take up a new name for themselves? Not many, I’d suppose.”

“Actually,” Sherlock says. “A lot of people. People in witness protection programs, or when you need to get away from someone like an abusive partner, or agents, or undercover police, or—”

“Alright,” Greg says, interrupting Sherlock’s listing. “So a lot of people.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “And that’s why this is not easy. We need to find out the name he’s used _after_ his fake death.”

“Doesn’t that sound familiar,” Greg murmurs, but Sherlock ignores him. 

“Find the name, find the killer,” Sherlock says. “Get Molly to do the post mortem, she knows what I need.”

“I’ll try,” Greg promises. “Enough of me making questions. You’re bursting to tell me, aren’t you?” he asks and Sherlock nods. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“The man has received the first two letters which have been sinister enough for he has gotten scared and gone into hiding, without telling his wife about it. The wife gets anxious, come to me, gives me a name, Mark White, and with a little digging it turns out he has been dead for almost twenty years already. She has no idea, of course, why would she come to me if she did. There is a passport with that name she gave me, and the wife recognises him as his husband, so the name he has given him _is_ his name, but for some reason, he has been using another one for twenty years. Possibly something to do with sentiment, because people do stupid things for love. The letters suggest that he has been part of some kind of group of people in his past, and possibly it has something to do with the identity change, so I think, and I’m pretty sure, it has been his job since the letters indicate that the group has been so significant that he has been easily recognised as a part of it. So what kind of things make people take a new name? Safety, or the lack of. It has been a safety measure and as the statistics show, men are less likely to need protection from their spouses, so it’s a job. Nothing you can do as a hobby won’t be so serious. So what kind of jobs require extreme safety measures? Police work, Secret Intelligent Services, the army, special ops, anything to do with criminals, sensitive information and wars. So he has done something fairly dangerous for living, presumably, he has enemies, or the institution or organisation he worked for has enemies, which wouldn’t be a surprise. But the killer has shot him in the head, it has been a straight shot from a short distance. It has been an execution, personal. Judging by the grammar and the handwriting of the letters, I’d say the killer—and yes, the killer and the man who wrote those letters, is a same one—is British or Irish. The paper is British made and by the balance of probability, it’s obvious that the killer is someone who has access to British companies, so British or Irish. The pen he has used is just some random one, nothing especially interesting about that.” 

“And you said you had nothing,” Greg says, only a little amazed. He should be used to this already, but every now and then he will get astonished by Sherlock’s skills.

“This is the results of observation,” Sherlock says. “I don’t know who killed him or why. There are too many caps in between things, like what happened in 1996, why would someone want to kill him twenty years later. And _why_ has he been so _sloppy_ and started to use his old name again?”

“Maybe he has wanted to be the most authentic self for his girlfriend,” Greg says. Sherlock frowns.

“Doesn’t make any sense. Why would you go through the trouble of making yourself a new identity if you’re going to reveal your _authentic_ self anyway?” 

“Didn’t you say it yourself? People do stupid things for love,” Greg shrugs.

“I bet Mycroft knows,” Sherlock says.

“About love?” Greg asks confused.

“What? No,” Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft doesn’t—about the man! Who he is and why he’s dead.”

“Maybe you should ask him then,” Greg says. Sherlock scoffs.

“No, I won’t. He’ll just take the case from me, he does that. _This is of national importance, Sherlock. You can’t be trusted with this, Sherlock. You’re too much of a moron, Sherlock._ Anything he doesn’t order me to do, he thinks is not suitable for me.”

“Well,” Greg says, that does sound like Mycroft. “Maybe it’s not sui—”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Sherlock groans. “I hate it when you try to be clever.”

“Thank you,” Greg says, but he’s not very offended. _This_ he has gotten used to, and it doesn’t surprise him at all. “If he’s been in the police or in the military I guess it’ll be rather easy for me to check that out, but you know that when it comes to SIS and stuff like that, the information is not exactly reachable for me.”

“Then we use the process of elimination to get to the right one,” Sherlock says.

“Alright. I’ll get back to you,” Greg says. “Don’t go flying solo.”

“When do I ever,” Sherlock mutters. Greg ignores the snark and pockets the letters to get them checked out.

*

Greg is perhaps a little too proud of himself when he rings the doorbell on John and Mary’s house. He has been there a few times. He helped John move in there, and after that, he has been there a couple of times for a chat or a couple of beers and mindless telly. After Mary moved inhe hasn’t been there before this. Now he’s there and he has a pink gift bag with him, and there are a teeny-tiny baby’s shirt and stuffed bunny in the bag. He has asked help from Davies, who’s the newest parent in the Yard, what he heck you’re supposed to bring to a baby. It’s been so long since there has been a baby in his vicinity and he’s rusty. Back in his thirties, there was always someone who had a newborn baby or who was expecting. 

It’s Mary who opens the door. She has her hair pinned up and the baby on her arms. 

“Hello,” Greg says and hands the gift bag to her.

“That’s so kind of you,” Mary says smiling, she takes the bag and uses some kind of mum powers to see what’s in it but still has the baby secured on her arms. 

They go in. John is in the living room, sitting on the sofa, and there are envelopes and cards on the coffee table in front of him. He greets Greg and goes back to the task on hand.

“Who would have thought that having a family is mostly party planning,” John says. “Weddings and birthdays and christenings and all that jazz.”

“’All that jazz’,” Mary repeats. Baby Watson makes a baby noise for emphasize. 

“You know what I mean,” John says, takes a card from the table and hands it to Greg. “There you go, you’ve just speared me one less lick on the envelopes.”

“Thanks,” Greg says, turns the card over and reads it.It’s an invitation to the baby’s christening in two weeks. There is the place and the time and RSVP regrets only written in it. Greg has the _I’ll try_ on the tip of his tongue when Mary speaks.

“We expect you to be there,” she says. “We all know people who can make sure that even the Scotland Yard can come.”

Greg knows exactly who she means by _people_. And Greg really doesn’t want Mycroft to abuse his power to make sure that Greg can attend the christening. 

“In that case,” he says lightly and takes out his phone. He opens the calendar and makes two reminders for himself. One to remind him to talk it over with his boss and one to remind him for the actual event. Once he’s done and no longer has his phone on his hand, Mary places the baby Watson to his lap with a _There you go._ There isn’t much to do other than take the baby and hold her. 

The baby is, as babies often are, _tiny_. It’s always a surprise how tiny their little hands are and how little they weight. Baby Watson is very quiet and just looks at Greg with her big baby eyes. 

“You look a bit shell shocked,” John says, looking at Greg. 

“Well,” Greg says, making sure he holds the baby right. “There aren’t many babies in my life, it’s always a bit weird to hold one.”

“I know,” John says. “I mean, it’s not weird any more, but it has been. Weird. Babies change everything.”

“I bet they do,” Greg says. John looks happy, it’s the same kind of unchangeable happiness he has had going on ever since the baby was born. Mary is basically glowing, her happiness is even more physically visible. They look like a happy family. Happy normal family, or as normal as anyone who has an inner circle as they do can be. It suits them.

“Sherlock told me he found the missing man,” John says.

“The one that has been dead for twenty years?” Mary asks.

“Yeah. Although he’s now really dead,” Greg tells them. He hasn’t known Mary is that involved with Sherlock’s cases, but it’s not very surprising now that he thought of it. John and Mary _and_ John and Sherlock are all pretty much joined at the hip so maybe they have some sort of crime-solving three-way going on. 

“That’s interesting, was he murdered?” Mary asks. Greg wonders if Baby Watson’s first words are going to be murder and crime instead of Mum and Dad. 

They talk about the case and a few others for a bit, but when the baby gets cranky and starts to quiver unhappily on Greg’s arms, he decides it’s a good time to leave. Mary takes the baby and thanks him for coming and for the gift, and John comes to the door to see him off. 

“So you think Sherlock’s quite well?” John asks, he very obviously tries to disguise the question as something light and as if it has just come to his mind. 

“I guess so, yeah,” Greg says. “He keeps himself busy.”

“Good, good,” John says, changes his weight from foot to foot. “I think I’m gonna get back at it, like really back, once everything settles down a bit. I mean she’s lovely and all but I kinda miss it to be back on cases. I feel like I should do more, you know.” What John doesn’t say is that he worries, but Greg can read between the lines. He can do that fairly well when it’s not a Holmes he’s trying to decode.

“Don’t worry about it,” Greg says. “We’re keeping an eye on him.”

“We?”

“You know,” Greg says. “Me, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft. The whole Sherlock Holmes Protectors Unit.”

John smiles at that. “That we are, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid so,” Greg grins. They should get badges. Or jackets with SHPU embroidered on the back so that everybody would know who they are. Maybe they’ll get a bit of respect that way. “Take your time, be a father and do your family things, we have it under control.”

“Alright,” John says. “Just—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Greg says before John can even say what’s on his mind. “I’ll tell you if there is a crying need for you, stop worrying.”

“Right, right,” John says, his hands up as a gesture of giving up. “If you say so.”

“I know so,” Greg assures him. He knows where John is coming from. It has been _weeks_ since Sherlock shot Charles Magnussen. Greg knows that’s not the story any more, Mycroft has used his powers of reality bend or whatever and made it seem like someone else shot him—that’s what John has told him anyway—but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. They haven’t really talked about it, and maybe they should. They should probably also have a Sherlock Holmes related group therapy where they could talk things like that out. Greg doesn’t know what exactly went down on Christmas Day, he was visiting his mother and sister over Christmas, but he has heard a vague version of it. That _something_ went down, Sherlock got provoked or something, and Magnussen got killed. And then there was the whole ‘Miss me?’ thing and Baby Watson being born above it all and really it has only been a few weeks since. It’s no wonder John is worried. 

Greg is sure they all are in their own way. 

*

On the morning of Greg’s mother’s seventy-third birthday, Greg wakes up early enough to hit the road by nine o’clock. He has gotten the Saturday free after all, with the expense that he needs to be at work early on Sunday morning, but that’s the least he has expected. They have nothing urgent going on. Small, easy cases and the one he’s working with Sherlock. 

Mark White has turned out to be the weirdest and complicated case Greg has seen in a while. Molly has done the autopsy as Sherlock has requested, and she has confirmed that the shot to the head has been the cause of death and that he has been dead for six days before he was brought to Island Gardens, where Sherlock’s homeless people have found him. White’s girlfriend has tried to help as much as she can, but they have noticed very quickly, that even after a five-year relationship she doesn’t know pretty much anything about her partner. She has told them White has always said his parents are dead and he doesn’t have any relatives (Sherlock has pointed out that this is also a very common lie people tell when they try to conceal information about themselves). White hasn’t told her where he has been born or where he has grown up, he doesn’t have any long time friends. It seems they have shared all their friends, and none of them knows any more than she does. Mark White has clean records, and as Molly has pointed out, a bit too clean. There is nothinginteresting about him other than the fact that the records say he has died in a car accident on the England side of M4 on the sixteenth of October 1996. After that, there is obviously nothing about him. But even before his untrue death, the records are plain. 

Greg has checked and Mark White hasn’t been part of any police organisation. He is still waiting for an answer from the British Armed Forces, but it seems that it’s going to be a wild-goose chase. The information they have gathered about him before his first death in 1996 and from the past five years, hasn’t given them any clues whatsoever that would help them figure out why Mark White has faked his death. Greg understands now why Sherlock has been so confused. Mark White is as ordinary as it gets and nothing has shown any noteworthy reasons why someone would want to kill him. 

Greg is getting frustrated. Sherlock is getting excited. Greg has this nagging feeling that any minute now there will be Bonds knocking on their doors, ordering them to hand over the case. They have had it for almost a week and Sherlock has been investigating it for a few weeks, but it feels like false hope. 

The almost four-hour drive from London to Leeds has given him space to think about the case in peace, it’s a nice change from the hustle back in Scotland Yard. Nevertheless, being back in the countryside feels conflicted to him. Greg feels both at home and away from home at the same time. It’s weird how things like that work; he can feel like home in Leeds and in London, but either way he’ll always miss the other place. He parks his car outside his mother’s house. It’s not the house he has grown up in, it’s smaller and more suitable for his mother now that she lives alone. It still has room for Maggie, her husband Bill and the twins, but it’s still significantly smaller than the house they lived in when he and Maggie both still lived there.

Maggie is outside, she seems to be doing some early spring gardening of sorts. Greg doesn’t really know, his interest has never been in gardening. He doesn’t have a garden, so. 

“Ey up,” Maggie calls when Greg steps out of the car. “How was the drive?” she asks and comes to give him a hug. 

“Fine,” Greg replies. “Mum in?”

“Yep. She’s been going on and on about how you never come up here,” Maggie grins. 

“It has been two months,” Greg sighs. He takes a bouquet from the passenger side of the car, he has bought it from the town. It has carnations in it, her mother’s favourite flowers. He’s not _that_ bad of a son. 

He goes inside and he doesn’t even get to close the door behind him when his mother comes to the hall. She’s short and grey-haired, but her face makes her looks much younger than she is. She could probably pass as sixty years old.

“Hi,” Greg says. 

“You didn’t say you’re comin’,” Mum says, her dialect thick and familiar. Her attempt to look pissed doesn’t really work as her smile takes over half of her face. She opens her arms for a hug. 

“Happy birthday, Mum,” Greg says, hugs her and gives her the flowers. “I didn’t know until this morning, and I need to go back tonight anyway.”

“Ta,” she answers taking the flowers. Then she takes a good look at Greg. “Have you been eatin’? You look scruffy. And just like your father.”

She has been saying that for years now. Ever since Dad died, Greg’s mother has been comparing Greg’s looks to him. He can see the resemble himself, but Mum makes it sound like he and Dad look exactly the same. And most importantly: that Greg looks _old,_ just like Dad did _._

“Let him be, Mum,” Maggie says. “Greg only looks like Dad because he’s just as narky.”

Greg scoffs only a little offended. “Why thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Nar’n,” their mother says and looks at them both. “Off with your coats and let’s ‘ave a cuppa. Do you want summat to eat?”

Even if they tried to say no, Mum would make them both a sandwich and ordered them to sit down by the table. So Greg and Maggie go with her to the kitchen and let their mother go all motherly on them. Greg doesn’t hate it, it’s actually nice to let Mum do her thing, even if it means she’ll complain about how he should be more that and less that and _D’you really sleep enough_. 

Maggie has come alone since Bill is at work. Bill is a fireman in the town. And as Maggie is a school nurse, they have this ongoing joke of how they basically have the whole department of emergency service assembled when they get together. 

“So,” Mum says when she has served them tea and they all sit down. “What’ve you been doin’ with your lives?” she asks. Greg sips tea to let Maggie answer first. 

“What I usually do,” Maggie says. “Thommy said he’ll come home for Easter.”

“That’s nice. What about Matty?” Mum asks. Thomas and Matthew are her only grandchildren and she would love to have them around more. Sometimes Greg feels bad that he has moved to London at twenty-three and after that, he has visited his mum a few times a year, whenever the job allows him. But this is the first time in years that he has been able to come to her birthday. It makes Greg feel better to know that Maggie and Bill are still close by, and they will come to see Mum more often. 

“Matty doesn’t know yet,” Maggie says. “They have a shorter Easter holiday in Germany, he doesn’t know if he has the time.”

Mum sniffles with disappointment. “What about you then? London still good for ye?” Mum asks Greg.

“’s fine,” he says. “Been busy these past couples of months. Big cases back to back, one going on at this moment.”

“You and your cases,” Mum says. “Do criminals ever sleep?”

Greg shrugs. “Seems unlikely.”

“Talking about criminals,” Maggie says. “Did you see t’ news about that Russian politician getting murdered last night?”

“I didn’t,” Greg says. He has left home in a hurry, he hasn’t read the news at all. 

“Yeah, a proper assassination by the looks of it,” Maggie says. “It’s scary to think that can happen nowadays, innit?”

“Yeah,” Greg says absent-mindedly as he takes out his phone to read the news. He types _Russian politician murder_ into the search bar and the first article is from the BBC News. It says that a Russian liberal politician Boris Nemtsov has been shot last night in Moscow. He reads the whole article, mind racing. He wonders if Mycroft has to deal with that on his whatever work it really is he does. Mum and Maggie talk about some other thing already. Greg bites his lower lip thinking. He changes the browser app to the message one and types out a text. 

_Heard about the Russian politician being killed._

He doesn’t know what else to say, so he sends only that. He doesn’t wait for an answer, so when his phone vibrates for a new message, he almost drops the phone.

_Yes. I will be travelling to Moscow tonight._

Greg looks at the message, reads it over a few times and checks the sender. It is, as it should be, from _M. Holmes_ , but there are a couple of things that surprise Greg. First of all, Mycroft doesn’t text. Over the years Greg has gotten a total of three texts from Mycroft, including this one. The other two have been on when Greg has been occupied in somewhere where he couldn’t answer the phone, first one was a funeral and the second one he was testifying in court, and Mycroft has had something urgent, Sherlock related to say. If Mycroft can’t call, he sends a car to pick Greg up, or he sends Anthea, or both, or uses some other ways of communication, but he _never_ texts. Secondly, why is Mycroft telling him this? What is he supposed to do with that information, anyway, it’s not like he could _do_ anything. 

Greg’s so confused he doesn’t know what to reply. _Have a nice trip_ won’t probably be the most appropriate thing to say, it’s _murder._

“Eh, where are you?” Maggie asks, nudging Greg with her elbow.

“Nowhere,” Greg says pocketing his phone.

“Not here for sure,” Maggie says. “’s it work?”

“Kinda,” Greg says. It’s not a lie, but it’s certainly not the truth either. “A… friend works with foreign relations of sorts.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a far from the truth. But it’s complicated, and Greg doesn’t want to explain all of it. And for what it’s worth, he really can’t explain it even if he wanted to. Fuck if he knew what Mycroft is really doing in Moscow, maybe it has nothing to do with the assassination. Maybe he fancies a holiday. 

To be honest, Greg doesn’t believe that for a second. 

“You friends with some politician?” Maggie asks.

Greg thinks for a moment and goes with the middle ground of lying and not telling anything. “Kinda?”

“That sounds… promising,” Maggie says with a lopsided smile on her face. “You make your life in London sound very exciting and not at all ludicrous.”

“It’s easier if you didn’t ask,” Greg says apologising. Maggie shrugs and continues with some topic with their mother Greg has nothing to say to.

The rest of the day goes by rather easily. Bill comes around for dinner, and it’s nice to catch up with him. And as cliché, as it is, it’s nice to have someone around that he can talk football with. There are few people in his life right at this moment which whom he can have the conversation about the ongoing Europa League. 

“You two,” Maggie says, half amused and half trying to sound like she’s annoyed. “Years on end you talk about the same bloody things.”

“Well, it’s football,” Bill says. “It changes every year.”

“Smart arse.” Maggie rolls his eyes and pats Bill on the head. Greg smiles at them. Even if his marriage has crashed and burned, it’s nice to know that some people still have happy and successful marriages. 

Greg can’t stay for long after dinner, and even as his mother really tries to make him stay even little longer, he really can’t. It takes almost four hours to get back home and he needs to get back to work in the morning. Mum makes him promise he’ll try to come for Easter with _If Thomas is comin’, you need to come, too._ Greg promises to try, he really can’t say yet, and with that, he takes his leave. Sitting in the car, he remembers Mycroft’s text again. He takes out his phone, and after a moment of deliberation he texts Mycroft back with: _I’m free whenever if you want to talk_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real-life events used in this chapter: Boris Nemtsov's assassination on the 27th of Feb 2015 (from: "'Talking about criminals,' Maggie says" to "To be honest Greg doesn't believe that for a second.")


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! so, when I started writing this fic, I said quite a few times that this will be 100k when it's finished. well, it isn't (surprised pikachu). I guess papoe will be like 200-250k when it's finished. AND because of that revelation I've had, I decided I need a break. Not a long one, but just a bit of a breather you know. I've written over 50k in a month and it's not even a nano month! so, heads up, **chapter 6 will come out on Sunday 28th (EEST)** at the latest.  
> If I did chapter names, this would be called either "Politics", "Was that a joke?" or "Greg doesn't like cats but cats like Greg." 
> 
> and, possibly triggering stuff is in the end, check them out if you like <3

Two days after Greg’s mother’s birthday, Greg’s phone rings on the office desk. He’s already doing overtime, his focus on paperwork and the case they are working on with Sherlock. There haven’t been any new leads on it, on the contrary. It has started to look like Mark White really was the most ordinary man in the whole of the United Kingdom. Greg has a feeling that isn’t true—someone has made an effort of threatening him, killing him _and_ bringing him somewhere where he could be found. 

Greg takes the call without looking at the caller ID, he’s too focused on the papers in front of him.

“Lestrade.”

“ _Good afternoon._ ” It’s Mycroft. Greg straightens up on his chair and pushes the papers away from him.

“Hi,” he says. “What is it?”

“ _I’m back from Russia,_ ” Mycroft says. It takes Greg a moment to realise what he’s talking about. When he remembers the politician assassination. 

“Right,” Greg says. “How was it?”

“ _Tolerable_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _But the food there is always fine._ ”

“That’s… nice to hear,” Greg says frowning. He really can’t think of anything else to say. 

“ _I would like to take your offer_ ,” Mycroft says. Greg almost asks what he means.

“Alright,” he says. Why is Mycroft making this so hard? He could just say _Hi, I’d like to meet up for a chat, would you like to come to my fancy office in where ever that is that I work this week_ , but no, he makes it complicated. 

“ _I believe you are free_ ,” Mycroft says. Greg doesn’t ask how he knows. 

“Yeah, I am,” Greg says. “Quite invested in this case we have, but yeah, I’m free. Do you want to—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says before Greg can finish. “ _I’ll be in the Diogenes Club if you’d like to come around_.”

“I would.” Greg thinks it’s easier for everyone if he just talked as straightforwardly as possible. “What time would suit you?”

“ _Whenever suits you_ ,” Mycroft answers. Greg looks at the clock.

“Well, if I leave now, I’ll be there in ten,” he says. 

“ _Ten minutes is fine_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I’ll see you in ten._ ” Mycroft ends the call. Greg puts the phone on his desk and starts gathering the papers. He puts them all into a binder and turns the computer off. He’s secretly quite happy Mycroft has called, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it seems like Mycroft has realised that Greg is, in fact, just a phone call away. Secondly, if Mycroft hadn’t called him, he would have been in the office for two hours at least.

Before leaving Greg ponders about if he should take some of the reports with him, just to have something to do at home. He almost reaches for the binder but decides otherwise. Maybe he’ll be reasonable for once. He’ll go see Mycroft and then he’ll go home. He’ll eat real food and watch some telly, there must be The Graham Norton Show re-runs, old Top Gear episodes or something easy like that to watch. 

Maybe real food is a bit of a reach, but something other than just sandwiches would be good for him. 

It takes him eleven minutes to drive from Scotland Yard to the Diogenes Club and find a parking spot. He has to leave the car quite far away from the club, there aren’t too many places to park the car in Pall Mall. As Greg opens the heavy door and steps into the Club he realises Mycroft lives in the opposite building. He finds it funny somehow, but thinking more of it, it shouldn’t be at all surprising. Of course, Mycroft lives near the fancy posh people’s sitting club. Of course, he does. 

There are a few people around there, mostly old men sitting in the Silent Room reading newspapers and drinking tea, being posh and fancy. Greg goes straight to the Stranger’s Room, he knows Mycroft would be there. He knocks and waits. Mycroft opens the door and lets Greg inside.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Mycroft says, he sounds strained. Greg frowns to that, Mycroft hasn’t sound that on the phone, and that was only ten minutes ago. 

“Don’t mention it,” Greg says. 

“Anything to drink?” Mycroft asks.

“Ah, no thanks,” Greg says. “I’m driving.” He could always take a cab home but he doesn’t want the leave his car hanging around Pall Mall, someone would probably trash it. Not because it’s that kind of part of town but because his car is not a Jaguar or a Ferrari or whatever these people drive. He drives a rather normal BMW. 

Mycroft asks him to sit down, so Greg does. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the armrest.

“A pressing case?” Mycroft asks quite suddenly. It takes Greg some time to realise what he’s talking about.

“A bit, yeah,” Greg says. “But you’ve probably deduced that already.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “I like to call it observation,” he says calmly.

“Well,” Greg says, he recognises the look Mycroft has. It’s the same one Sherlock has when he wants to show off. “Go for it.”

“You have been overworking lately. It’s obvious, it’s almost past seven and you came from Scotland Yard. It would have taken you almost twenty minutes to come from your flat, and most of the time you work from nine to five, hence the overworking. Then there is the tension on your shoulders, the loss of appetite and the sleep deprivation. Nightmares?” Mycroft asks as if in passing. Greg shakes his head. He solemnly has nightmares, he used to when he first started. But he’s used to the death and violence, it doesn’t shake him up that much any more.

Maybe it means he’s gotten numb, but it’s mostly a good thing. 

“Did you have a nice time in Leeds?” Mycroft asks then.

“How the fuck do you know I was in Leeds?” Greg asks.

“It was your mother’s birthday last Saturday, obviously you went to visit her,” Mycroft says like it’s not at all weird that he knows when Greg’s mother has her birthday. 

“Right,” Greg says and decides it’s best if he didn’t ask. “It was nice.”

“Your sister lives there, too, doesn’t she?” Mycroft _asks_ , which seems a bit unnecessary since it’s obvious he knows that. Greg wonders if that is one of the reasons why Mycroft is so bad at socialising; if he already knows everything, he can’t really make small talk, can he?

“Yes she does, she and Bill live in the town, Mum lives a bit farther away in the countryside. She likes the countryside better,” Greg says. “It’s nice to visit there but I guess I’ve outgrown Leeds.”

“I rather like the countryside,” Mycroft says. “It’s quiet there.”

“Yeah, and wet and cold even more than in here,” Greg grins. “I mean the quiet is nice and all, I liked to live there when I was a kid, but I like London.”

“Why?”

“Are you saying you don’t like London?” Greg asks.

“No,” Mycroft says slowly. “I’m asking you why you do.”

Greg needs to think for a moment. In his head the explanation is easy: he just does. But he guesses that’s not enough an answer for Mycroft.

“Everything’s right here. You don’t need to go anywhere to get stuff, like you’ve got a Tesco in every corner in here, right, and if you want something fancy you’ve got it or if you want to go to a pub to watch the game, you can and you don’t have to drive fifteen miles for it. And there’s people here, a lot of people. It can be a bit much sometimes, sure, but I got pretty frustrated with the same faces in my teens. When I got the change to move here, I took it. I think London just works for me,” Greg says. “Or maybe I’m just lazy.”

“Or you just like to be comfortable,” Mycroft suggests. Greg shrugs.

“Be as it may, I’ve liked London for better than any other place I’ve lived in. Leeds has the advance of my family being there, but London has everything else, really.”

“It has its cons,” Mycroft says. “But when you’ve looked at it from the right angle for long enough, it starts to lose its glamour.”

“Yeah, it does,” Greg agrees. “The honeymoon phase is long gone. How long have you been living here anyway?”

Mycroft tilts his head and takes a moment to answer. “Officially or unofficially?”

“What that even means?” Greg laughs. “Both?”

“Officially, as it says in the papers, I’ve lived here since I was twenty-one years old. Unofficially since I was nineteen.”

“Right,” Greg says. “What it means to live somewhere unofficially?”

“I was—working, but I was still studying in Cambridge at the time,” Mycroft says. Greg notices the pause before _working_. He would like to know more, but he thinks that’s something he can’t know. He has a hard time imagining nineteen years old Mycroft anyway.

“So you went to Cambridge?” Greg asks instead. “I’m not at all surprised, though I would have guessed Oxford.

“An understandable guess, I believe. But the younger self was drawn to the university with more namely people. I have an interest in physics back then so Cambridge felt more suitable for me.”

Greg snorts accidentally out loud. “Fucking hell. Don’t say you could have been an astrophysicist or something like that.”

“Well,” Mycroft says slowly. “I had a special interest in quantum physics. It seemed to be the only thing that still felt somewhat challenging to me.”

“Jesus,” Greg sighs. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t draw to save my life, I’m afraid,” Mycroft says with a straight face.

“Well that’s a relief,” Greg laughs. “Changing the subject completely,” he says then, sifting in his seat. “What is the actual function of this?”

Mycroft hums. “There are people with higher statuses who sometimes want some peace and quiet now and then. They come here to have that.”

It’s quite clear that Greg’s lower, working-class status is not something people see often inside the walls of the Diogenes Club. It shouldn’t surprise him, but it does a little.

“So, posh people come here to sit in a fancy room and they leave and go to their fancy rooms in their own posh houses?” Greg asks.

“Quite so,” Mycroft says, then after a pause: “Maybe you should try it.”

“What?” Greg asks. “Sitting? I am sitting.”

“Staying quiet.”

Greg just looks at him for a moment. “You’re in a good mood,” he says, or even deduces. Observes, whatever word Mycroft would prefer.

“I… am,” Mycroft says as he has just realised that himself.

“So I gather the trip to Moscow was not _that_ bad?” Greg says. Mycroft blinks a few times, then frowns. Greg thinks that maybe Mycroft has forgotten why Greg’s there. Greg doesn’t think it’s a _bad_ thing.

“Considering the circumstances, it was not bad,” Mycroft says and takes a look at his wristwatch. Greg notices he tries to keep the gesture small and insignificant but unfortunately for Mycroft Greg is a detective. He notices things like that. However, he says nothing about it.

“Circumstances being the murder of the politician?” Greg asks instead. Mycroft nods.

“Yes.” He doesn’t continue, and Greg doesn’t know how to ask further. He would like to know because apparently, Greg is a nosy bugger who can’t stand being in the dark. He is interested in what Mycroft _actually_ does for work and why he needed to go to Russia. Greg has done his digging, of course, he has, he wants to know stuff as it has been discovered already, and it seems like that politician has been critical towards the current president of Russia. Greg hopes Mycroft has been there on behalf of the killed politician and not just to hang around with the president. Because if he has, Greg has to rethink if he wants to hang around with Mycroft.

“What were you doing there anyway?” Greg asks.

“Politics,” Mycroft says, the word sounds like a swear word coming from his mouth. Greg finds that interesting.

“Is it normal for you to get summoned to different countries when something like that happens?”

“It’s not _abnormal_ ,” Mycroft answers, avoiding clarification. It’s not abnormal either, but it has started to annoy Greg even more. He wants to know what’s going on with the world. He’s not in the total dark of world events, he reads the news and he’s interested in politics and he has quite a clear image of what’s happening in the UK, but what he has learned with Mycroft is that the stuff he reads from the news is just a fraction of everything that is happening behind the closed doors. He feels like he’s being teased with little tips of information but still not getting the whole thing. It’s _frustrating,_ and maybe it’s not his place to ask for more, he would like to.

And maybe he’s wrong but he’s pretty sure Sherlock hasn’t been exaggerating things when he has said Mycroft runs the entire country.

“You are thinking about something,” Mycroft states and turns Greg’s focus back in real life.

“No I’m not,” Greg says and he knows Mycroft knows he’s lying but Greg feels like this is not the right time to go and demand Mycroft to tell him world secrets. It’s a probability that the time will be never but he’s absolutely sure it’s not now.

Greg notices how Mycroft looks at the time again. This time it’s not so subtle.

“You’ve got something?” Greg asks, nodding at the watch.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Not exactly.”

“Meaning?” Greg asks.

“Politics,” Mycroft says again but this time it’s clear it’s code or something, an easy way out of explaining further.

“Right,” Greg says and stands up. “I guess that’s my cue then.”

“I apologise,” Mycroft says and stands up too. “The government—”

“Doesn’t sleep,” Greg finishes for him, grinning when Mycroft looks taken aback by his words. “It’s alright. I mean, it’s work, I understand.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says, frowning.

Greg takes his jacket and puts it on as he goes to the door. “Thank you for this,” he says. “You saved me from a lot of futile overwork.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft says. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what else to say, and Greg has that much kindness in him that he won’t point that out.

“See you,” Greg says and waves his hand as he gets out of the door. He hears Mycroft saying something back.

*

It has been a relatively quiet week with nothing big happening. It’s nice for now until it gets frustrating and makes Greg go nuts with the quiet. But for now, he takes it all in and makes the most of it. 

They have almost given up with Mark White. It feels bad, Greg wouldn’t want to let it go, but they have nothing, absolutely nothing. He has almost considered asking Mycroft about it. Sherlock hasn’t had anything new to add, and Greg’s and the Metropolitan Police Service don’t have enough resources to find anything new about it. Also, the military finally got back to him and turns out Mark White has not been in there either. It looks like Mark White has been an Intelligence agent or something like that, and that complicates everything. The thing is Greg isn’t sure if he wants to ask Mycroft’s help. Greg wants to keep this case and he knows Sherlock would be pissed if he heard that Greg has been babbling to Mycroft. But as it is, Greg can’t do anything about the case.

And that’s why he has his third cup of coffee in the break room. Andrew is leaning on the counter, reading news from his phone, a cup of tea on his other hand. Greg has a few days old Daily Sun in front of him, he’s not exactly reading it, just turning the pages every now and then.

“Have you seen this?” Andrew asks suddenly, he comes to sit opposite of Greg and puts his phone on the paper. “They’ve written about the Roger siblings.”

“Again? That was ages ago.”

“Yeah. Some not-quite-there article by the looks of it, mostly about the scandal around it.”

“Sounds like proper shit,” Greg says. He doesn’t want to read it.

“It’s BBC, though,” Andrew says. “They mention you.”

“With a name?” Greg asks, he takes the phone and scrolls down on the article. It is just a run-through of the case, but it’s mostly about Joshua Roger not being his mother’s child and how the tragedy of his jealous half-sister have given him trauma for life.

“Yep.” Andrew pop’s his p. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, they’ve even put your age on it.”

“Why the fuck?” Greg asks, frowns at the phone screen, scrolls down and sees his name written in bold letters. There it is, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, 49.

“At least they’ve got it right,” Andre says. Greg looks up to him. Andrew’s biting his tongue trying not to grin.

“Fuck off,” Greg says. “Go be in your thirties somewhere else.”

“A sore spot?” Andrew grins and takes his phone back.

“Fuck you and fuck the BBC,” Greg says. “Don’t you have something to do?”

Andrew shrugs. “Not really. Davies wanted to do the papers, so I’ve got nothing on. Drinking tea. Reading the news. You know, making sure London’s still safe and secure.”

“Go do something useful. They don’t pay you for sitting, do they?”

Andrew looks meaningfully at Greg. “Sure thing, sir. By the way, Sally asked if she could do my morning on Friday if I did her night.”

“Yeah, fine, as long as I have someone with me then,” Greg says. “Why she needs the morning? She hates those.”

“She’s got a date,” Andrew says. 

“With the bearded lab guy?” Greg guesses. Andrew nods.

“Jesus, boys,” says a voice behind them. Greg turns to look. Sally stands on the doorway with her arms crossed, slightly amused expression on her face. “You two quite done with gossiping?”

“Yes,” Andrew and Greg say at the same time. Sally raises her eyebrows. 

“Well, we’ve got a body,” Sally says. 

“Right,” Greg says and downs the rest of his coffee. “Where?”

“St. James’s Street.” 

Greg frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Sally says. “And apparently they want us. More specifically you.”

Greg sighs. “Fuck.”

“Ready to go?” Sally asks.

“On the fucking road,” Greg groans. He parks the car as close as he can get it. There is a body, laid face up on the road. It’s the St. James’s Street, for fuck’s sake. It’s gonna take minutes for the media to get there, and some government official will be pissed about this. “How much media is there already?” he asks Sally as they go near. 

“Just the BBC and Channel 4.”

“Fuck the BBC,” Greg groans. 

“You’ve seen the article then?” Sally grins.

“Don’t you start,” he says. “Get the reporters off the scene, we don’t need them right now. Then come back here, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Sally says. They get out of the car at the same time, Sally going one way and Greg the other. There are a few officers in uniforms and Greg goes to talk to one of them.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Sherlock Holmes is here,” the officer says. “He wanted you, sir.”

“Alright. Thanks,” Greg says, he has already guessed that. “Where is he?”

“Examining the body, sir,” the officer says and points Greg in the right direction. Greg goes there. Sherlock is crouching over the body with his loupe. He’s John-less. Sherlock works better with John, both as a detective and as a person in general. Greg takes a deep breath. Before John came to the picture, they used to do this a lot with Sherlock. Just Greg and Sherlock, and Greg’s raising blood pressure.

“What’s going on?” Greg repeats the question to Sherlock. 

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, not looking away from the body. It’s male, dressed nicely, quite young, probably on his twenties. There is a lot of blood on the pavement and his clothes. 

“Looks like a suicide,” Greg says slowly. He knows that if Sherlock’s there, it most likely is not a suicide.

“It does but it isn’t,” Sherlock says. He looks at the man’s face through the loupe. “He was a client.”

“Of yours?”

“Yes, Charles Lewis, twenty-three,” Sherlock says, taking his time with the loupe. “Funny thing.”

“What is?” Greg asks.

“He has no business being here,” Sherlock says. “And the angle is wonky, if he had jumped himself, he would have been in a different position, and besides there are no signs on hanging on his fingers or hands. He has fallen on his back, jumpers don’t tend to do that, they usually fall on their stomach or their sides, but he has fallen on his back. He has come down headfirst, his head’s smashed in, the biggest impact has been to his skull. Someone has pushed him through the window.”

“Alright,” Greg says. “Do you know who?”

“Maybe. We need to go to his house,” Sherlock says. “It’s possible that the most evidence is there. He has nothing on with him, I checked. You coming with me?”

“As if I would let you go alone,” Greg says.

“And that’s why I need you,” Sherlock says. “And because no one else works with me.”

“There is a reason for that,” Greg mutters. Sherlock is already walking away. “Wait up a bit, I need to make sure he’s taking cared of.”

“Ask Donovan to do it. She looks like she needs something to do,” Sherlock says impatiently, pointing at Sally.

Greg turns to look at her. She’s standing few yards away and she looks confused and annoyed. Right, Greg thinks.

“Wait here,” Greg says to Sherlock. “I’m gonna pop in there and then we’re going.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. Greg goes to Sally. 

“It’s Sherlock’s client. Looks like a suicide but isn’t,” he says. She crosses her arms.

“So it’s his case then?” she asks. “Are we helping with his case?”

Greg takes a deep breath and with the exhalation, he says: “Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” Sally says and rubs her face with both of her hands. “Right. Do I need to make the calls?”

“Could you?” Greg asks. “Please.”

“Fine,” Sally says, she sounds like she’s giving in on something. “Just make sure he doesn’t go solo with this one.”

“When have I ever let him?” Greg asks even though he knows he does that. Way too often, still.

Sally just looks at him for a moment. “I’ll deal with this,” she says eventually, waving her hand towards the body. 

“Thank you, Sally,” Greg says. “I’ll go see the lad’s house with Sherlock. I’ll see you back in the office, right?”

“Right,” Sally says. “Go. Before I get too pissed off to work.” She’s smiling, so Greg doesn’t take her threat too seriously. He thanks her again and goes to see Sherlock.

“Alright, let’s go then.”

“Nah,” Sherlock says. “I’ll take a cab. I’m sending you the address. And Mycroft might call you in like ten minutes. It’s a twenty-minute drive.”

“Why the f—right. Whatever,” Greg says, he’s not sure if he wants to have that conversation with Sherlock.

“Isn’t this like his area?” Sherlock says, looking around. “A dead body is probably not something he’d want to have in here.” 

“Probably not,” Greg agrees. Sherlock leaves then, walking fast to the other side of the street where there a still some traffic. Greg’s phone pings, it’s the address Sherlock has sent him. Greg wonders if it would have been easier for Sherlock to just _tell_ him, but maybe it was better for him not to judge Sherlock’s methods.

Greg has driven for nine minutes when his phone starts to ring. He put on the hands-free and answers the call.

“Hello,” he says.

“ _Good afternoon_ ,” Mycroft says, he sounds normal.

“Sherlock said you might call.” Greg isn’t sure if that is wise to tell him that.

“ _Hm, did he now?_ ” Mycroft asks. Then he sighs. “ _There is a body on the road on St. James’s Street._ ”

“Yes,” Greg says. “I’m aware of that, I’m just coming from there. Some client of Sherlock’s, we’re going to his house now.” 

“ _Good_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _It seems like your work is getting on my way time and time again,_ ” he says then. Greg grins, it sounds like an attempted joke.

“You have a bad aura or something,” Greg jokes. “Crime just follows you.”

“ _So it seems_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I hope I can count on you that the stir is over fairly quickly. The Prime Minister is getting anxious._ ”

“Right,” Greg says. “The Prime Minister. Right. Does the PM need the street for something?” 

“ _I can’t really tell you that, can I?_ ”

“Well, I could just ask someone else. You know, there are people who know. Not in our unit but the gossip goes beyond units and teams.”

“ _I’m sure does_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _Let’s just say that she has a problem with the_ stir _._ ”

“Alright,” Greg says. “I can’t do anything about it, but it shouldn’t take too long. Sergeant Donovan is handling it.”

“ _Very well_ ,” Mycroft says, then he’s quiet for a moment. He clears his throat. “ _Make room for next Friday._ ”

“Why?” Greg asks, the GPS tells him he should take the next right.

“ _I’d like to arrange a meeting_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Yeah? Are we pre-arranging meeting now?” Greg asks. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says, but he doesn’t go on.

“Do you have like a shitty week ahead of you or something?” he asks, but Mycroft doesn’t answer him. Right then. “I think I’m on duty next Friday, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“ _Do that_ ,” Mycroft says. 

“Alright. See you then, I guess,” Greg says, he has arrived at the right place. He sees Sherlock and he parks the car on the side of the road. “I need to go. I’ll text Donovan and tell her to hurry up.”

“ _Very well. Goodbye,_ ” Mycroft says and ends the call. Greg gets out of the car. Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then rolls his eyes.

“Ugh,” he says.

“What?” 

“Just,” Sherlock says shaking his head. “Stop.”

“What?” Greg asks confused.

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, like he’s trying to choose the right thing to say. “He’s my brother.”

“I know?” Greg says. “What are you on about?”

Sherlock turns around and goes to open the front door of the nearest apartment building. “You just has a three-minute conversation with Mycroft, and that’s two minutes and thirty seconds longer than it should have been. What did you talk about? Surely not _this_ thing, Mycroft isn’t that interested that a man is dead, he’s more worried about the traffic jams it will cause. Mycroft needs someone to blame, he always does, he loves to blame people. But he doesn’t blame you because you are in a good mood. Which, by the way, is sickening. So you and my brother had a three-minute conversation about something _other_ than work, which means personal matter. And what do you two have in common? Me. But you wouldn’t be in a good mood after a three-minute conversation about me. So it was about something else, which I can’t understand because why would anyone want to _chat_ with Mycroft? He doesn’t chat, he hates people. But you,”—Sherlock turns around and looks at Greg—“have had what, four? Five planned meetings with my brother this year and it’s only _March,_ and I’m not even counting the random ones. Though, nothing’s really random with Mycroft. Mycroft says I have it wrong, but Mycroft is just a bad liar.”

“What are you even saying?” Greg asks. He tries to push trough Sherlock but Sherlock doesn’t let him go any further. Sherlock looks at him with an amused expression.

“Forget it,” Sherlock says, turns and goes to a door. He has a key to that door too, he opens it and goes inside.

Greg doesn’t forget it, but he has no energy to continue on the topic either. He follows Sherlock inside. Sherlock puts on the lights. The flat is a normal student flat, it looks plain and cheap. Furniture is from Ikea and the walls are bare, there are no pictures or posters there. The only thing that makes the flat looks like there might have been someone living there, is a big cat tree up against the wall next to a small television. It takes only a moment for the cats to appear. One is black and white and the other one is big, grey in colour and long-haired. They meow to Greg and Sherlock and the big one comes to rub itself on Greg’s legs. 

“That’s a Norwegian Forest Cat,” Sherlock informs. Greg looks down at the cat.

“Right,” he says. He needs to make calls, they can’t leave two cats on their own. “So, what are we looking for? Why he came to you?” he asks and tries to step over the cat. It’s going to leave so much fur on Greg’s trousers. 

“Lewis’ fiancé’s mother has been ‘strange’, his words, not mine,” Sherlock says, he’s already on full-on investigation mode, as Greg is still trying to get rid of the huge furry feline on his feet.

“Strange how?” Greg asks. “Strange as in _Might throw him out of the window_ or strange as in _She likes to listen to death metal before bed_?”

“The latter.”

“So who killed him?” Greg asks. The cat has started purring. “Is he in debt? He’s a student, right? Or was it his fiancé?”

“A student, yes. Fiancé, no. She has no reason.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounds annoyed, which makes Greg feel annoyed. The cat is apparently not going to leave Greg alone so he steps over it very carefully and goes to the living room where Sherlock is going through the bookshelf. 

“So what are we looking for?” Greg asks. The black and white cat jumps on the tree and very subtly leans over to sniff Sherlock as he goes close enough. 

“A letter,” Sherlock says. 

“Are you going to do some handwriting analysis again?” Greg asks, he puts on rubber gloves and starts to go through things on the coffee table.

“No,” Sherlock says, crouching to reach the lowest shelf. “The letter is from the fiancé’s mother. He told me about it a few days ago, said he would bring it to me but then he died.”

“That’s very suspicious,” Greg says. “Is the letter a clue?”

“Probably,” Sherlock says, then after a pause: “A- _ha_!” The black and white cat gets frightened and it jumps off the cat three and runs to the bedroom. 

“Did you find it?” Greg asks, turns to look and sees Sherlock holding an envelope.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, opens the envelope and looks inside. He takes out a piece of paper, reads it fast and looks up to Greg. “Check Lewis’ bank accounts because if there is a fifteen hundred pounds loan, the killer was his uncle.”

“What?” Greg blurts. “Who is the uncle?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks and gives the envelope and the letter to Greg. Greg reads the letter, but it isn’t very helping him to understand. There is nothing about a loan _or_ an uncle on the letter, it just is very weird. The fiancé’s mother is _She likes to listen to death metal before bed_ kind of strange; she has told in the letter that she has been seeing these weird dreams about a man wearing a green suit and she would like to come to visit. 

“So it was about debt?” Greg asks. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “It’s quite clear now. The uncle loaned him some money, which is not a surprise, look at this place, also the smaller cat has kidney disease, there is the vet bill pinned on the corkboard in the hall. The fifteen hundred is a part of some money laundering, I believe Interpol has the case.”

“The Murray-Mendoza case?” Greg asks. He has heard of it, it has been in the media. Someone stole eighty million pounds from the Murray & Mendoza law firm six months ago and the money vanished. Interpol has thought the money has been transferred to various internet gambling webpages, then it has been transferred back to the people as wins. The crime itself has been very common and easily arranged, but getting back the eighty million has become very hard as the money has been sliced into so many little parts tracking has been almost impossible.

Almost, as it seems Sherlock knows something about it.

“What makes you think it’s connected?” Greg asks.

“I don’t think, I know,” Sherlock says, typing something on his phone. “The uncle was working in the company, he left two weeks before the money was stolen. And now he has bought himself a flat worth eight and a half million pounds.” Sherlock turns the phone screen to Greg. It’s a _Property for sale_ adverse for a flat on St. James’s Street.

“Is that—?”

“Yes, it’s the flat he was thrown out from,” Sherlock says, putting his phone away. “I believe Lewis was trying to get more money, now that he had gotten the fifteen hundred and it had become clear that his uncle has come up with some money. He was dressed to impress. Maybe he has guessed his uncle got the money from the robbery, maybe his uncle just panicked, maybe you should ask him when you find him.”

“That’s amazing,” Greg says, then corrects himself. “Not amazing, obviously it’s horrendous that a man is dead, but if the uncle has been one of those people who stole the money from Murray & Mendoza, _that’s_ amazing.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock says. He takes the envelope from Greg’s hands, folds it from the middle and puts it in his coat pocket.

“What are you doing with it?” Greg asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock says, “yet.”

“So you’re just going to take it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says as if it’s so obvious Greg shouldn’t ask. “You don’t need it and you already know the killer. _And_ you just solved a big case for Interpol, too.”

Greg huffs, it would be clear for everyone that it has been Sherlock who has solves the Murray-Mendoza case, and Sherlock knows that also.

Sherlock says he needs to go but he leaves the keys of the place to Greg (he still doesn’t know how Sherlock had them in the first place). Greg then makes three calls. First, to Sally, he tells about the uncle and that Sherlock is sure he is the killer. Then he calls the Commissioner and tells about the Murray-Mendoza connection. The last call is to make sure someone is there to look after the cats. 

On his way back to Scotland Yard Greg buys himself a lint roller.

*

Sherlock has been right about the Murray-Mendoza case and in a week it is solved. Greg does get some credit for it even if he tries to get away from it all. He hasn’t done anything, he has just been there to listen to Sherlock. 

In the aftermath of the Murray-Mendoza case, the Mark White case has gone even colder. Greg hasn’t gotten anything new, and the whole case is now just a pile of papers on the end of his office desk. He glances it from time to time just to be reminded that he can’t do anything about it. The longer it takes the harder it will be to solve, but there is something that doesn’t let Greg to just leave it. 

So when the double murder happens on the twelfth of March, it comes as awaited reason to drop the Mark White case for a moment. They get the call at six in the evening; a neighbour has heard gunshots and seen a man coming out of the house. The neighbour has been too afraid to go inside, and the man he saw has gone out of sight before he could even make the call. The paramedics from the first ambulance are the first one to see the murdered couple.

Greg and Sally are probably the next people who see it. The house is a mess, there are chairs fallen on the floor in the dining hall, one window is mashed and there is glass everywhere, the television screen has a crack on it and the two women have been shot in the living room, there are clear signs of that, but they have been moved to their bedroom and now they lie next to each other in the bloody bedspread. Everything in the house shows that there has been a battle and the women, or one of them since the paramedics are quite sure that the other one of them has been killed first, has not been taken down easily.

“Who are they?” Greg asks after they’ve seen the place and the forensic team has gotten inside and started their work. 

“Nina and Jessica Owen,” Sally tells him, she has their driver's licenses pulled out on the tablet screen. “Nina is thirty years old and Jessica is twenty-nine. They’ve been married for a year and moved to this house two months ago. Before that, they’ve lived in a flat in Waterloo.”

“And the man?” Greg asks. Sally gives the tablet to him.

“The neighbour who called said that he saw him only for a second, but he came from the front door and went that way,”—Sally points towards the closest house on the street—“but he said he couldn’t recognise him or that there was anything very interesting about him.”

“Other than that he has apparently killed two women,” Greg mutters mostly to himself.

“Yeah, well, there are security cameras on the house,” Sally says. “Jessica Owen worked in a firm that makes those house security systems with a phone app, so they have one installed in the house.”

“Was it on?” Greg asks. That’s good news, there should be something. Even if they can’t see the killers face in the footage, they can get a lot out of those. His height, body type, that sort of thing that helps with the identification.

“It should have been,” Sally says. “The guys are checking it out.”

“Good, that’s good,” Greg says and takes a look at the pictures on the tablet. Nina Owen has long bright red hair in the picture and she looks a bit older than thirty if Greg’s quite honest, she has deep lines on her face and her skin is tanned like she’s been outside a lot. He makes a mental note about that because the file Sally has pulled out for him says she works in an office as a secretary and the secretaries Greg knows don’t get tanned like that. Jessica Owen has dimples and curly black hair, her skin colour is a warm brown. She looks kind, and overall they both don’t seem like people who would get brutally killed. Greg can’t help it, but it doesn’t look very good.

“Do you think that this is a hate crime?” Greg asks. It feels bad to verbalise it. Sally bites her lower lip and shrugs.

“I don’t know,” Sally says, sighing heavily.

Greg leaves it there. He knows it’s a possibility and it really does look bad, but he knows better than to jump to conclusions right away. There might be something else, something they don’t know yet that will explain the motive. And for what it’s worth, he kind of _hopes_ there is something else. Hate crimes get messy very quickly in the media and for a good reason, but there is also the other aspect. People who commit hate crimes _want_ publicity. They want to get noticed and praised among other likewise thinking people. And every news article and Twitter post about said crime will get noticed by those people who think it’s okay to kill people based on things like skin colour or sexuality. It’s messy.

The next couple of days go by fast, as the investigation of the double murder starts. The security system did catch the killer but as it would be too easy, the footage doesn’t have his face in it. Instead, they now know that the killer is six feet tall, give or take an inch, white and has average body type. A specialist has also pointed out that the man is ambidextrous which is a weird detail, and it seems like he has either planned or known very well what he’s doing. The footage doesn’t show any signs of hesitation by the killer when he’s gone inside. But when he has come out of the house, he has been in a hurry, almost like he has been panicking.

The autopsies tell them that both women have died from a gunshot to the chest, Jessica has been killed first and Nina has been the one who has fought back. There has been foreign DNA under her nails but they haven’t got a match for it yet. The house has turned out to be a dead-end, but it also has strengthened the thought the killer has known what he has been doing; there are no fingerprints or any noticeable things left by the killer. He has been very careful, there haven’t been even footprints in the puddles of blood on the floor.

Greg has a pretty good idea what kind of a person they are looking for, but that doesn’t help much, as no one else has seen anything other than the neighbour and he hasn’t seen much either. But Greg is hopeful, he believes they can solve this. The still unsolved and cooling case of Mark White doesn’t get him down—

it determinates him.

*

Greg has had the invitation card pinned onto his fridge door ever since he got it. He knows it by heart (“ _John and Mary invite you to join them to celebrate the Christening of their daughter Rosamund Mary on Sunday 15th of March_ ”), and he arrives at the church a lot earlier than he’s supposed to. It has been a couple of years since the last time he has been to church. He’s not very religious himself. Molly is the first one he sees. He tells her she looks nice, and she takes the compliment with a bright smile. She looks happy, happier than Greg has seen her since the engagement with Tommy, Tom, Timothy, what’s-his-name ended. Mrs Hudson looks very nice too, and Greg feels like should have put on something else than the old black suit of his. 

As Christenings go, it’s a normal one. The only abnormal thing is Sherlock, who’s being a right arse, but what else could you even expect? It’s Sherlock and it would be strange if he did act like a normal human being. After the baptism is done they go for ‘refreshers’ back to John and Mary’s house. Refreshers, in this case, are tea, coffee and cake. Greg takes a piece of cake and gets a cup of coffee. He sits alone for a minute until Mrs Hudson joins him. 

“It’s it nice,” she says. “It’s so nice. With the flowers and everything.”

“Yeah,” Greg says. “It’s nice.”

“How are you?” Mrs Hudson asks, patting Greg’s arm. Greg stuffs his mouth with cake and takes a huge gulp of coffee before he answers.

“Life’s alright.”

“You should find yourself a nice woman to live with,” Mrs Hudson says, rather out of nowhere. Greg tries to not to look too surprised or annoyed about the statement. He’s _fine_ and he certainly doesn’t need nice women. 

“It’s nice to be alone for a change,” Greg says, it’s a poor excuse, but it’s also the truth. He likes living by himself. “You were alone for years after you and your husband split up, weren’t you?”

“Oh, but I was married to a criminal,” Mrs Hudson says happily. “I was allowed.”

“Well,” Greg says. “I was married to a cheater. Doesn’t that count.”

“No,” Mrs Hudson says matter-of-factly. “I believe in the saying.”

“What saying?”

“Love is all you need.”

Greg laughs. “Well, I prefer ‘Look before you leap’, to be honest. Especially if it’s about love. Better safe than sorry, you know.”

“You sound like a bitter old man,” Mrs Hudson says grinning. 

“Who’s a bitter old man?” asks John. He’s come to their table with Baby Watson on his arms.

“Me, apparently,” Greg says, taking a piece of cake to the spoon.

“Sounds about right,” John says. Mrs Hudson gets all mushy and babbly with Rosie, and John hands the baby to her and sits next to Greg.

“Alright, mate?” John asks.

“Yeah,” Greg answers.

“So,” John begins, turning slightly away from Rosie and Mrs Hudson. “I got an angry phone call from Mycroft the other day.”

“You did?” Greg tries to sound like that doesn’t interest him much. “Why was he angry?”

“Just something about Sherlock being a loose end and going around doing things he’s not supposed to, whatever that means,” John says. “I promised to get back to the business as soon as possible. I mean,”—John lowers his voice a bit—“I’ve seen him worse than that, but he’s getting at everyone’s nerves at the moment.”

“He does,” Greg says.

“He seems to be clean but it’s Sherlock. Can we be sure?” John says. Greg shrugs. 

“Talking about Sherlock,” Greg says. “Where is he?”

“Had his cake and left. Apparently, there is something better to do other than socialising.”

Greg frowns. John smiles. “It’s fine. He does that. You know he does.”

Greg nods but doesn’t have time to say anything as his phone starts vibrating in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“Sorry,” he mutters, takes out the phone. It’s Sally calling from her work phone. Greg sighs, it’s his day off, but as it seems, he doesn’t have those. He takes the call.

“Yes, Donovan.”

He hears Sally snort on the other end of the line. “ _Having fun?_ ”

“In a matter of fact, I am,” Greg says. “What is it?”

“ _Just that the pretty lady in black is back_ ,” Sally says. “ _She has something urgent business for you_.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Greg curses. He stands up from the chair and goes somewhere more private. “Give the phone to Anthea, would you?”

“ _Oh, Anthea?_ ” Sally asks. “ _She has a name then?_ ”

“Just, do it, please.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sally says. It takes a moment until Greg hears Anthea’s voice.

“ _Good afternoon, Detective Inspector_.”

“You, too,” Greg says. “Surely you, or Mycroft, knew that I’m having a day off. It’s John’s baby’s Christening today.”

“ _Yes. Mr Holmes said you’d be free by now and most likely back at Scotland Yard, considering your workaholic state of mind and the investigations on hand. The name has been given and you have drunk your coffee, right, sir?_ ”

Greg glances back at the table. Yes, his coffee cup is empty, but there is still a few spoonfuls of cake left on his plate.

“What is it?” he asks.

“ _It’s Mr Holmes, sir_.”

“What, Mycroft?”

“ _No. Sherlock_ ,” Anthea clarifies.

“Right,” Greg says. “What about him? I just saw him.”

“ _Mr Holmes’ investigations have come too close to the government's business. You understand that Mr Holmes is still under special surveillance. He’s dealing with some sensitive matter and Mr Holmes would like you to interfere._ ”

Greg has great difficulties understanding what Anthea is saying.

“So where’s Sherlock?”

“ _Mr Holmes will take you there. The car will be outside John and Mary Watson’s house in approximately three minutes, sir._ ”

“Fuck,” Greg says. “Alright. Thank you, Anthea. Next time ask Mycroft to call me or something. There’s no use sending you to the Yard when I’m not there, is there?”

“ _I believe no, Detective Inspector._ ”

“Just Greg is fine,” Greg tries. He knows it’s no use.

“ _Goodbye, sir._ ”

“Yeah, bye.”

Greg ends the call and goes back to the table. “So,” he says to John. “I have been summoned elsewhere.”

“Duty calls?”

Greg snorts. “If you’d call Mycroft and Sherlock a duty, then sure.”

“Both of them?” John asks. “You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble.”

“Nah,” Greg says. “Sherlock’s gotten himself into trouble. Nothing serious, just something that needs the police. And by police, it seems, they mean me.”

“Good luck with that,” John says. “We should meet up sometime, have a pint.”

“We should,” Greg says. “Give Mary my love, yeah? I need to dash.” He goes by the coat rack and takes his overcoat, then goes outside.

The car isn’t there yet, so Greg takes a pack of cigarettes out of the coat pocket and lights up one. He smokes for a few moments, waiting for the car. It comes quicker than Greg would have liked. He tries to smoke as fast as he can, but it’s not fast enough, as the driver gets out of the car and opens the back door for him. Greg knows he’s only doing his job, but he doesn’t like it. He’s not posh enough to be treated like that.

Mycroft is already sitting in the back seat. He looks stressed, anxious, he only nods at Greg as he sits down. 

“I apologise for interrupting your day off,” Mycroft says.

“’S fine,” Greg assures maybe himself more than Mycroft. “What’s going on?”

Mycroft has a messenger bag on his feet, he leans down and takes out a file. He gives it to Greg. Greg opens it up and looks it through. Most of it is written in a language he doesn’t understand, so that’s not very helpful. English is not much easier to read. 

“I don’t understand anything,” Greg says handing the file back to Mycroft. There is a quick smile on Mycroft’s face that comes and goes in a fraction of a second.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “It has mostly to do with foreign politics.”

“So how’s Sherlock got himself into this, eh, thing?” Greg asks. “Sounds to me like this is not very usual for Sherlock.”

“Boredom,” Mycroft says. “The greatest enemy of my little brother.”

“Where are we going?”

Mycroft looks out of the window. “To get Sherlock.”

Greg leans back on the seat. Well, shit. He and Mycroft going to get Sherlock will be something Sherlock won’t shut about. Greg doesn’t say anything, mostly to not point it out to Mycroft. He’s fairly sure Mycroft knows already, and half of his uneasiness is due to that fact. 

“You’re thinking something,” Mycroft says. Greg turns to look at him.

“Nothing important,” he says, even if you only say that when it’s the absolute opposite from the truth. He goes with the other very good strategy: he changes the subject. “How’s the world?”

Mycroft smiles at him. It’s a genuine one. Greg has started to like those. 

“The world goes around,” Mycroft says. “It has been an almost calm week.”

“That’s good,” Greg says. “Innit?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “Good indeed.”

The drive takes little less than ten minutes. When they arrive, the driver parks the car, and before he can get out behind the wheel, Greg steps out of the car. They are slightly afar from the busiest London. There are tall apartment buildings and a few cars around, but no people to be seen. Greg looks at Mycroft. He looks uncomfortable and out of place. He seems like he doesn’t belong there.

“I don’t do this often,” Mycroft says, like if he knew what Greg is thinking. He probably does know.

“Well, let’s make this quick then, shall we?” Greg says. “Which way?”

Mycroft takes the lead. They go to a narrow alleyway and the farther they go, the messier, greyer and nastier the place goes. It’s like a scene from a film, a rubbish can fall to the ground and a street cat screeches. It makes Greg feel itchy. 

“What the fuck is Sherlock doing here?” Greg asks. There is only one thing he can think of and he really hopes nothing like that is going on.

“That is a good question,” Mycroft says, stopping at a door. “To be answered some other time. After you, Inspector, if you may.” Mycroft opens the door. There is a tiny entrance hall behind the door. The wallpaper is ripping off the walls and there is black mould on the ceiling. 

“Bloody hell,” Greg mutters and steps inside. The place is small. It seems like there are only two rooms there. A kitchen and living room with a broken legged bed and a tiny television. In the kitchen, there is a small plastic table and on a chair sits Sherlock with his coat on and a newspaper in front of him. The kettle is boiling. 

“Hello, little brother,” Mycroft says. If he looked out of place outside, he looks _alien_ in there. “This is quite enough of this.”

Sherlock looks up from the paper and groans. “Seriously, you two? Go away.”

“Sherlock,” Greg says pleading. “It seems like something is going on that’s better for you to stay out.”

“Um,” Sherlock pretends to think. “No.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft uses the parent voice, it’s stir and otherwise toneless, like a rumble. 

“It’s a good thing you brought Lestrade with you,” Sherlock says, ignoring Mycroft altogether, turning to Greg. “There is an arrest you to make. And a drugs bust.”

“Sorry, what?” Greg asks, looks at Mycroft. “You said nothing about drugs?”

“It was quite clearly stated on the document,” Mycroft says, not quite looking at Greg.

Greg suddenly realises why he’s here. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock turns the page. The kettle is boiled and there’s a thickly accented voice coming from the living room.

“T’fuck are you?”

“Ah, Mr Biznak,” says Sherlock, looking over at the man that has just arrived. Greg turns around. Said Mr Biznak has a big dark beard and short black hair, one black eye and a bloody nose. He looks tired and confused.

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard, you’ve heard of that, haven’t you? And this is my brother. They’ve come to arrest you,” Sherlock says and hands the kettle to the man. “Tea?”

Mr Biznak looks mortifies. “You’ve betrayed me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says at once. “This has nothing to do with me. My dear brother is just a little too enthusiastic with my work. But sure, I wouldn’t have helped you anyway, so,” Sherlock stands up and turns to Greg. “Possession of high ranked drugs, attempt murder, smuggling, human trafficking.”

“What?”

“If you may, Inspector,” Mycroft says. Greg looks at Mycroft, then at Sherlock, and finally he turns to face the man.

“For fuck’s sake,” Greg mutters.

Mr Biznak has panic in his eyes and he moves his arm swiftly.

“Looking for this?” Sherlock says and takes a _fucking_ _gun_ out of his coat pocket. Greg groans.

“Seriously now,” he says. “Fucking. Stay here. All of you,” he orders. “Sherlock put the fucking gun done. Mycroft, could you keep an eye for him? And you,”—he points at Mr Biznak—“you stay here, or I’ll put an APB on you.” Sherlock puts the gun on the table and takes something else out of his pocket. He hands it to Greg. It’s Mr Biznak’s ID. He takes it, goes outside and calls Sally.

“ _Hello_ ,” Sally says. “ _Did you find out what that was all about?_ ”

“You could say that,” Greg says. “Could you check out a man called, um, Necj Biznak?”

“ _Sure thing. Could you spell it for me?_ ” Greg does as she asks, and for a moment he hears only the keyboard clicking as Sally types. 

“ _Found him. Slovenian by origin, wanted for attempted murder back in 2011 and he has an earlier verdict on smuggling drugs._ ”

“Thanks,” Greg says. “Can you send someone in here, I don’t have anything with me.”

“ _Alright. Where are you?_ ”

Greg checks the street name, tells Sally and ends the call. He goes back inside and finds Mycroft, Sherlock and Necj Biznak where he has left them.

“So, Mr Biznak,” Greg says, pockets his phone. “I believe this is a drugs bust. And quite frankly I’ve had a lot of practice on those, so either you tell me what you have and where or I’ll happily go through everything myself. Your call.”

It takes fifteen minutes for Sally and a few officers in uniforms to come. They take Biznak and Greg shows them the drugs. Then they let Sherlock go—or more precisely, Mycroft orders Sherlock to go. As the officers go around the flat, Greg sneaks out to the street and lights up a cigarette. 

Fucking Christ, why is his life like this? Greg is annoyed, angry even, the feeling is bubbling in him like water boiling over. Fucking Holmes brothers. Greg takes a long drag of his cigarette and hears the door opening and closing behind him. He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is because at the same time the lights of the black Jaguar are switched on as the driver starts the car. Greg keeps his eyes at the opposite house. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “Greg.”

Greg turns to look at him slowly. 

“We’ll drive you back if you please.”

Greg feels himself getting even more annoyed. Mycroft looks at him and maybe, just maybe there is a bit of embarrassment in his expression. Good, Greg thinks. 

“You’re not happy.” 

Greg snorts. “Nicely observed. I have the fucking right not to be.”

“No need to shout,” Mycroft says and Greg can hear the shushing in his voice. It really doesn’t help at all. “We will discuss this in the car.”

Greg looks at Mycroft and Mycroft looks back. Greg sighs, but it’s more like an angry puff of air. 

“Fine,” he says. “Just wait a sec.” He shows the cigarette.

“By all means,” Mycroft says. Greg smokes as slowly as he possibly can. When there’s nothing left, he drops the cigarette butt to the ground and follows Mycroft to the car.

Greg sits down and fastens the seatbelt. He’s uncomfortable in his suit, it is not a good outfit for this kind of activities. He can’t understand how Mycroft seems to be unbothered by his waistcoat and all.

“So,” Greg says as the car starts to move. “What the fuck that was?”

Mycroft takes his time to answer. “You do understand that I take Sherlock’s business as my personal concern?”

“Yes,” Greg bites out. “Doesn’t explain why you dragged me in, too.”

Mycroft crosses his hands onto his lap. “I trust you,” he says, but doesn’t look at Greg. “More than the other officers.”

“Right,” Greg says, what he should even say to that? Thank you? “But fuck, Mycroft. You can’t just assume that I’ll do everything you want. I can’t fucking go rogue and arrest people just because you want me to prevent Sherlock from getting involved with drugs. I _can’t_ do it and you of all people should know that.”

“I understand that.” Mycroft voice is calm. 

“Do you, really?” Greg asks, almost amused. “Do you _actually_? Because this doesn’t feel like you do. I don’t fucking care if it’s an emergency or whatever because I _cannot_ do things like this.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says annoyingly calm. It makes Greg think Mycroft doesn’t understand a word he has said. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Greg snorts, it sounds cold even to his ears. “I think you’re overusing your power here.”

“That is not the case,” Mycroft says. “I realise now that perhaps this could have been acted out differently but you must understand, Inspector, that some things concerning Sherlock need to be done quickly.”

“Because there were drugs involved?” Greg asks. He doesn’t try to correct Mycroft’s formality.

“Yes. And the lack of Dr Watson has made Sherlock more reactive than usual.”

“The lack of Dr Watson,” Greg repeats under his breath. “It has been a few weeks since the baby was born.”

“And it took Sherlock a few hours to pump himself full of drugs a few weeks ago,” Mycroft says, not looking directly at Greg.

Greg rubs his face. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t just barge into some house because there might be drugs in the same room as Sherlock. As Greg Lestrade, I can be part of SHPU, but as Detective Inspector Lestrade I really can’t.”

“SHPU?” Mycroft asks confused. 

“Sherlock Holmes Protectors Unit,” Greg says, almost adds _A stupid thing that makes it easier to_ _cope with the_ _worry,_ but he doesn’t. 

“Ah,” Mycroft says. “Well. I would like it if Greg Lestrade would take an active role as part of the Sherlock Holmes Protectors Unit.”

“Believe me, I am already,” Greg says. “Without a doubt. But that doesn’t mean I can arrest people just because.”

“Very well,” Mycroft says. “I’m sorry of the unpleasantness this has caused you.”

“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.”

Mycroft nods and after a moment he says: “Thank you. For what you did.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg says. “You could’ve called the police yourself.”

Mycroft looks out of the window. “I wanted you.”

Greg blinks to that. Right.

The car stops and Greg realises only now that they have arrived at his street. He finds himself slightly disappointed about that. He feels like he should say something but he can’t think of anything. He hopes he has made his point clear.

“About next Friday,” Mycroft says. “I hope you don’t mind that I have, as you put it, overused my power, and cleared the afternoon for you.”

Greg laughs. “Fine,” he says. “If you use your power for good, then sure, go for it.”

Mycroft smiles a bit. “Until Friday then.”

“Until Friday,” Greg says, unfastens the seatbelt and gets out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: there is double murder of a lesbian couple and one of them is a person of colour, and Greg thinks it might be a hate crime. (from "The house is a mess --" to "It's messy." (that's a complete coincidence tho))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! long time (not really, just feels like it) no see, but it was really nice to have a little break from this, and write something else. thank you for the feedback, it's so lovely to hear your thoughts <3 without further ado, here's chapter six! if I did chapter names, this would be "MVP: Anthea".
> 
> // edit: 2nd of July  
> hi, so. I've decided that mature is a better rating for this. Mostly because in the past chapters I've already had to censor myself when it comes to Murder™, so rating this m gives me a bit of freedom with that. also, I added a couple of tags.

The next Monday after Necj Biznak gets arrested, Greg has braced himself for some kind of questioning from his boss about the situation. It’s always a little bit worrying when detectives go rogue and start working alone on cases no one else knows about, and Greg knows that the arrest of Necj Biznak has looked exactly like that. He has prepared himself a little speech, or more like a straight-up lie, how he had just stumbled upon the alleyway, and Biznak had been acting weirdly, but the questioning never came. Greg got into work and waited for the whole day for his boss to come around demanding answers, but she never did.

And Greg is rather sure why. He doesn’t bother asking Mycroft if he has done something. Greg _knows_ he has. And Greg doesn’t know if he likes that or not. At least it has spread him from a bad lie—he’s never been one to tell believable lies, anyway. Greg decides to not say anything about it to Mycroft. Biznak talks, they get his statement and get on with their lives. If Greg forgets everything else about the case, it’s very easy and quickly done. Justice is served, it should be the most important thing.

What comes to the murders of Nina and Jessica Owen, that is just weird. They know that the killer has used a nine millimetres handgun and both women have been shot form fairly short distance with the killer facing them. It just doesn’t make any sense. There was nothing taken from the house, so it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong, and the fact that the killer has moved both women to the bed is just too weird for random killing. Greg has a weird, nagging feeling that something is amiss, something doesn’t add up. 

It’s Thursday when the strangeness of the case gets to its peak. Greg has been sitting in court for a couple of day as the trial of Anniken Taylor’s murder has started. It should be a quick trial since Diana Jones has confessed and doesn’t seem to have changed her mind about it, but attending court for a couple of days has come in between him and the investigations. When he gets to Scotland Yard on Thursday noon, Sally is waiting for him in his office. She’s sitting in the quest chair, bouncing her leg in anticipation as Greg comes in.

“Finally,” Sally says, she has a binder with her, and before Greg even sits down on his chair, Sally has spread all the papers from the binder on the desk. “Look,” she says, turns the papers so that they’re facing Greg.

“What am I looking?” Greg asks, sits down and takes a few of the papers closer. They seem to be Nina Owen’s records. 

“There is a huge gap in Nina Owen’s life,” Sally says. “Look, there, it looks like she never went to any schools after she turned sixteen and that’s just ridiculous, because here,”—Sally searches for a moment and then gives Greg a new paper to look at—“in her CV it says she’s gone to college and all. It also says in her CV that she has had two longer employments before, but there are no records of anything like that. Andrew and I went through everything like four times and seriously, there is _nothing_.”

“I see,” Greg says. 

“Also her birthday doesn’t match up,” Sally says. “The boys in the lab said she’s more likely thirty-five than thirty.”

Greg frowns. “Yeah, I actually noticed that she looked older.”

“Well, looks like she doesn’t just look older, but that she is. And there is a fourteen years-long gap, there’re no health records or anything. Believe me, we checked.”

“Well done,” Greg says, he means it. “This is quite something.”

“I thought so, too,” Sally says. She looks proud. “Only that I have no idea what that means. I mean it would be a huge error in the database if this is just an error of some kind, because that’s _fourteen years_ missing.”

“It tells one thing,” Greg says. Sally raises her eyebrows questioning. “The fourteen years gap might just explain why she was killed.”

“So you think it’s connected, then?” Sally asks.

“Obviously it is,” Greg says, gesturing at the papers spread all over his desk. “This is too much of a coincidence if you ask me. There hasn’t come up anything else that would explain why she and her wife got killed. I’m pretty sure the answer is in the gap. Wasn’t Nina the one who fight back?” he asks. Sally nods. “I’m quite certain we can assume Nina Owen is not who she seemed to be.”

“So, who is she?” Sally asks.

“No idea,” Greg says. Sally smirks.

“I guess that means we have things to do,” she says, stands up and gathers all the papers back into the binder. “I’ll try to ask Nina Owen’s parents what they know, they should be reachable. At least Davies has talked to them.”

“Do that,” Greg says. “Can you leave those here?” he asks, pointing at the binder.

“I won’t even pretend to be surprised,” Sally says, putting the binder back on the desk. “Your desk will be overflowing with papers in a few weeks if you continue like this.”

“Well, that means we need to solve something,” Greg says, tapping his knuckles against the Mark White case files. 

“We will,” Sally assures him. 

Sally’s promise doesn’t hold even if they try. Sally gets a statement from Nina Owen’s parents, but after they have talked about their daughter for twenty minutes, it gets clear they even don’t know anything, or they are under some really strict non-disclosure agreement that prevents them from talking about the missing fourteen years of their daughter’s life. However, they confirm that Nina’s date of birth is incorrect in the records they have found. She’s actually thirty-four years old, but they don’t know how to explain why it’s been wrong. Basically, they get nothing out of them.

Jessica’s family aren’t helping any more than Nina’s. Jessica’s parents have known Nina only for a couple of years, and apparently, they aren’t too keen with, quote, the lifestyle Jessica has chosen, therefore they haven’t known anything that would help them since they didn’t even know their daughter’s wife. Greg decides it’s best not to mention his suspicion about Nina’s past playing a part in their murder. It’s sad, how even after Jessica’s death, her family is still focusing on her sexuality. 

They interview some friends they find. They are a colourful bunch, and they try to help, but half through them it becomes clear they know Jessica very well, but Nina is somewhat a mystery to them too. Most of them have been Jessica’s friends first, and those who haven’t, have known Nina for a couple of years and knew her from work, or they went to the same gym. There are no childhood friends or anything long term like that. It’s suspicious and worrying.

A specialist has examined the house and made remarks on the way the fight has probably taken place. They have been certain that Nina Owen has known above-average self-defence. That alone is not very interesting detail, but adding it with everything else, Greg thinks it’s safe to assume that Nina Owen has had quite a life in those missing fourteen years.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


  
  


Greg’s shift on Friday starts with a man getting stabbed in Hyde Park. Greg and Sally get to Hyde Park two minutes after the paramedics, and they get to see the body where it lays on the grass. The man has a large, dark red and wet patch on his shirt, and he has gone very pale by the blood lost. The paramedics confirm the man is dead, and that the cause of death is the stab wound in his stomach. It’s both a blessing and a curse to have a crime scene in a public place like that; there are a lot of eyewitnesses, but there are also a lot of people who are unbelievably tactless when a tragedy occurs. There are a lot of camera phones pointed at the body, and some tourist even has an SLR camera out, and they’re taking pictures with that. The eyewitnesses make it easier to get to the killer, but the rude people using someone’s death as a shocking social media post just make Greg mad.

It’s an investigation that could have been done without a detective, since they have over ten eyewitnesses, and the stabber is wearing a bright yellow hoodie which stands out nicely in the Lancaster Gate underground station, even if it’s packed with people. An hour and fifteen minutes after the stabbing, a uniformed police officer catches him. It’s easy and clean and quick, and the paperwork takes three times longer than catching the killer. 

Fifteen to seven on that evening, Greg’s phone rings. He’s been home for an hour and a half, and honestly, he has been waiting for the call. Mycroft never gave him a time for their meeting, but Greg is sure this phone call might be it. He answers the call.

“ _Good evening_ ,” Mycroft says, Greg can hear the rumbling of a car engine on the background. “ _There will be a car waiting outside your building in five minutes, if you’re ready?_ ”

“Alright,” Greg says. And with that, Mycroft ends the call. Greg doesn’t think too much of it, it would be rather pointless for him to start wondering why Mycroft couldn’t just _text_. He’s sure that texting would have taken him less time and effort than calling. Sure, not everyone likes texting, but Greg thinks this is yet another power thing. Sherlock would say that at least, Greg is certain of that. 

Greg takes his coat, his keys and his phone and gets outside. It doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes for the black car to stop in front of Greg. Greg gets in. Mycroft is seated on the other side of the back seat, with his umbrella and three-piece suit.

“Good evening,” Mycroft says.

“Evening,” Greg answers fastening the seat belt. 

“A rough week?” Mycroft asks. There is a weird tone in his voice, something like concern. It makes Greg look at him. 

“Not really,” Greg says, “just boring. Long.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Time has a strangle predilection to go slower in times one would like it to go faster.”

“Sounds like you’ve got first-hand experience about that,” Greg grins.

“More than you can possibly imagine,” Mycroft answers. “There have a been a few occasions when I’ve been quite certain time has in fact stopped. It has mostly to do with the European Parliament. Those meetings can be ghastly at times.”

Greg snorts. “I guess there is a reason for the Parliament to change every five years. Sounds like it could be dangerous for the participants in the long run.”

Mycroft hums in agreement. 

“I’ve been either in court or in my office getting even more grey hairs because these ongoing cases we’ve got. I guess it helped a bit that we solved a case in two hours today,” Greg says.

“The stabbing in Hyde Park, I presume,” Mycroft says. He doesn’t even bother to pretend he doesn’t know.

“How do you always know everything?” Greg asks, then after a second, he says: “Actually, don’t tell me. It has probably something to do with the Queen, and I don’t have to hear that.”

Mycroft almost laughs. “You’re not a fan of the Royal Family?”

“Well, no,” Greg tells straight out. “They seem like a useless bunch of people from the 17th century, to be quite honest with you.”

“That’s quite the statement,” Mycroft says, but he doesn’t sound at all surprised or bothered by it. “They do have some use in this country, I believe.”

“Sure,” Greg says. “Surely they’re good people and all that. Just, a bit too high and mighty for my likings if you know what I mean. But I guess they use their power for good.”

“They do, in fact, do a lot of charity work,” Mycroft says. “If that counts as ‘using one’s power for good’.”

“I guess it does,” Greg says. 

“But no,” Mycroft says, “I’m afraid it has nothing to do with the Queen. We had people there.”

“Why?”

Mycroft looks at Greg with an expression that tells Greg he should know that already. “It’s an open place in the middle of the day,” Mycroft says. “Approximately twenty thousand people go there every day. Obviously, we had people around.”

“Alright. Sounds reasonable enough,” Greg says. “Kinda pisses me off though, that we don’t know about the Bonds and when they’re around and stuff.”

“Bonds?”

Greg grins. “You know, MI6, intelligent agents, James Bond,” he explains. “Though, you’re more like M or Q, aren’t you?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer to that and Greg thinks that’s an answer itself.

“Sometimes it’s better the supernumeraries don’t know,” Mycroft says instead.

“Supernumeraries?” Greg asks, he doesn’t know if he should be offended by that. “Is that what you think we are?” Greg might have deliberately said _we_ instead of _I._

“Naturally, no,” Mycroft says, and Greg is sure he has heard the _I_ underneath Greg’s words. “The lower-ranked police officers don’t need to know everything.”

“Right,” Greg says, he decides to drop it. “Whatever. It was quickly done. Thanks to those twenty thousand people there in one day, we had like thirteen witnesses. They described the stabber, and one of them actually knew him, he used to work in the same office with him, so.” The car slows down for the traffic lights, and Greg looks out of the window, tries to recognise the street. “Soho?” he asks.

“Ah, no,” Mycroft answers. “Mayfair. We’ll go through there.”

“Guess Soho’s not your favourite part of the city?” Greg asks. 

“No, it really isn’t.”

“What is it then?”

Mycroft thinks for a moment. “I think I prefer Greenwich.”

“Really?” Greg asks, he’s actually surprised. “I thought you’d be all in for Westminster.”

“A nice part of town, but now really my favourite,” Mycroft says. Greg doesn’t point out that Mycroft _lives_ there, because first of all, Mycroft probably knows that already. It might just be that he lives there for a beneficial location. (Although, Greg is sure that at least 50 percent of the reason is that Mycroft is a drama queen and living on Pall Mall is _dramatic_.)

It doesn’t take long after that until the car pulls over. Mycroft unfastens his seat belt as the car stops, and Greg copies him. They get out of the car, and as they stand on the street, Greg has no idea where they are supposed to go. There is an old building in front of them, but there are no signs or guides, that would tell anything that’s inside. 

“This way,” Mycroft says, and Greg follows him. Mycroft goes to the front door of the building, types in a code, and after a second or two, the door opens with a tiny click. Mycroft nods for Greg to go in first. 

He’s faced with a long hallway. It looks like an old hotel lobby, only that it’s empty. There is a dark red carpet on the floor, it feels soft under Greg’s shoes. There are old paintings on the walls and dimly lit lamps. It’s like a weird mix of Victorian horror and proper _boasting_. 

“Through there,” Mycroft guides him, they go on, and the hallway is long. 

“Uh,” Greg starts, he doesn’t know if he’s more confused or annoyed that all the places Mycroft has shown him are either panic rooms or ridiculously ornamental and straight from Downton Abbey. “What is this place?”

They reach a door, Mycroft opens it. The room is very similar in style with the Stranger’s Room in the Diogenes Club. However, it’s more homely, and Greg might even describe it _soft._ It’s probably the lightning’s orange hue and all the wooden surfaces. 

“This used to be my office,” Mycroft tells him. “Before my latest… promotion.” Greg looks at him surprised; that’s not what he has expected. And to be honest, it’s pretty darn grand for an office, even if it seems to be Mycroft’s style. 

“What do you use it for now?”

“To have a place that is actually quiet,” Mycroft answers. He gestures Greg to take a seat, which Greg does. He doesn’t ask why Mycroft still uses his old office, because he’s certain he wouldn’t like the answer. Mycroft has probably bought it by accident, or maybe he has gotten it as a Christmas bonus from the Queen. Anyway, it’ll be something that would be too much for Greg, so it’s best for him to not ask questions he doesn’t want to get an answer for.

“So,” Greg starts then, before the silence gets too long. “How’s the world?”

The question makes Mycroft smile ever so slightly.

“The world goes around,” Mycroft says. Greg grins.

“Does it, now?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Slowly, but surely. There is an ongoing war in Donbas. I believe it will go on for a few more years before it’s over.”

“The war in eastern Ukraine?” Greg makes sure.

“Yes.”

“And how much does your belief have actual knowledge?” Greg asks. He knows the question has a very easily spotted leading in it, but if Mycroft notices that, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Some,” Mycroft says. “But that might come to as a surprise to you: I don’t actually know everything.”

“Good,” Greg snorts. “For a moment there I thought might be some sort of a superhuman.”

“Quite the contrary,” Mycroft says, seemingly unbothered. “There are many aspects of me that may suggest I’m just an ordinary human being.”

“Do share, because I don’t really believe you,” Greg challenges him. 

Mycroft takes a pause before he speaks. “I hate Mondays, some might even say it’s loathing I feel. Not because Mondays tend to be the end of the weekend since my weekends don’t really differ from any other day. Which you can probably relate to. It’s because, in my line of work, the new week means that everything piles up. It’s chaos on it’s the most literal meaning, and it takes place every Monday. Every Monday at 8 AM, I start 16 hours long workday.”

“That’s… a lot,” Greg says, “but doesn’t really convince me since your work is something so different from anyone else.”

“Fine,” Mycroft says. “I hate the traffic jams, I try to avoid the rush hours with all my being. Christmas songs make my head hurt. I take my tea with sugar, and my favourite is Earl Grey. Coffee I take black, and my favourite brand is not anything fancy, just anything general will do as long as it’s easily manageable. My favourite movie is from the 19th century. I get frustrated with my parents, as I believe everyone else does,” Mycroft says, then after a short break continues with: “Is that quite enough for you?”

Greg smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “But you still have the freaky deduction skill, and you’re like, I don’t know, in charge of the whole country and to be honest with you, I wouldn’t be too surprised if it turns out you run the whole Europe. And you live on Pall fucking Mall.”

“I wouldn’t say that the fact counts as something abnormal.”

“Yes, it bloody does,” Greg says. “But sure, you’re human.”

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft says, and the joke is clear in his voice. It makes Greg feel somewhat proud, now that he has gotten over the surprise that Mycroft Holmes is actually capable of making a joke, as unbelievable as it sounds. And _that_ s something that makes it easier for Greg to actually believe in Mycroft’s humanity.

“You’re thinking something very loudly,” Mycroft states. 

“Hm, sorry,” Greg says, and because he is a liar who lies, he says: “just a bit amazed by this _office_. It’s fucking fancy.” That’s not a lie altogether, but it’s easier than to tell Mycroft he has been thinking about his ever-growing pride over Mycroft’s joking abilities. 

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft says, surprising Greg. “But it’s part of the job. I would’ve believed you knew that already.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Because I have such a clear image of what you actually do.”

“That is not what I meant,” Mycroft says, knitting his brows. “There are certain aspects of this job that require unnecessary luxuries and old traditions which, to be frank, should have died in the last century.”

Greg thinks that for a moment. “Is it because of the Royal Family? Or just because England is just an old-fashioned country?” he asks.

“Most likely it’s both,” Mycroft says. “The quality still had servants only a few decades ago. The Royal Family still has, obviously. A cook or a maid is not so rare yet.”

“It’s weird,” Greg says.

“But they did employ many people back then.”

“I know,” Greg says and jokingly continues: “I’ve watched my Downton Abbey, thank you.”

Mycroft lets out a short laugh. “Sure.”

Greg considers for a moment until he gives up to the craving. It has been hours since his last cigarette, but he has found himself wanting to smoke. Maybe he has conditioned smoking with Mycroft.

“Is there somewhere I could smoke?” Greg asks, and he notices he already has all the excuses lined in his mind. He is so used to having to make excuses, it’s not that usual for people to smoke these days. The time when everyone smoked everywhere they liked, are long gone. It should be a good thing, but Greg finds himself missing the time it was alright to light up a cigarette in a pub. Nowadays the fewer and fewer pubs have even a smoking room. 

“Just open up the window,” Mycroft says. Greg turns to look at the window Mycroft’s pointing at. It’s huge, more like a glass wall with stiles. 

“How the fuck does that work?” he asks.

“I would assume there is a handle there,” Mycroft says dryly. 

Greg stands up, goes to the window, finds the handle and pulls it down. The hooks make a sound when they open inside the window stile. The window opens fairly easily, Greg is sure it has been opened regularly. Cold air pushes inside. Greg puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it up. He tries to see what is happening outside, but it’s too dark for that. He can see some light coming from a window opposite, but that doesn’t really help to see.

It’s funny, though. Greg feels strangely calm there. Sure, the whole room is _ridiculous_ to him, and it’s still weird to be in the company of Mycroft Holmes, just hanging out, but it’s _nice_. And the light paced conversation has made all the work-related things disappear from his mind. It’s a calmness Greg welcomes. 

It doesn’t take long from Greg to hear another crack of a lighter as Mycroft lights up a cigarette himself. If Greg has to guess, he would say Mycroft is a social smoker. Or maybe the conditioning has gone both ways. What a pair of Pavlov’s dogs they are.

They smoke in silence for a few minutes. 

“I really should quit smoking,” Greg says. Mycroft has brought an ashtray with him, and Greg stumps the cigarette. 

“Me too,” Mycroft says.

“I did stop,” Greg says, leaning into the window stile, looking down again. “It was mostly because Cora, but it was that time Sherlock was quitting too, so it seemed like a good time. Peer support and all that. Took me a divorce and Sherlock’s suicide to start smoking again.”

Mycroft is quiet for a moment, then he clears his throat. “I’m sorry about the latter.”

Greg turns to look at Mycroft. “It’s fine,” he says. “We’ve drunk a few pints with John and got it out of our systems a bit.”

“That’s good,” Mycroft says. “The situation back then was what it was, there wasn’t anything else to be done.”

“Well, yeah,” Greg says. “You could have told John, though. He was a fucking mess afterwards.”

“We decided it’s for the best if Dr Watson didn’t know,” Mycroft says, putting out his own smoke. “The ideal situation would have been that there wouldn’t be more than me and Sherlock who knew, but not even my powers could work that out.”

“I understand,” Greg says. “And besides, it was years ago, I’m quite over it already.”

“To be quite honest with you, Greg, I’ve heard you talk about it fairly often in these past two years,” Mycroft says. Greg notices the pause Mycroft takes both before and after his name as if it was something really hard for him to say. It really shouldn’t be, it was just his name. One syllable, it should be rather easy. 

“Alright, so maybe I’m not totally over it,” Greg admits. “But he’s alive and mostly alright, so I think it’s pointless to whine about it. It’s in history, and yeah, it was bad back then, but it really has been years.”

Mycroft makes a sound Greg doesn’t know how to decode. He turns to close the window as he realises the air coming from outside really is cold. There haven’t been any real spring days yet, and Greg is _so_ done with the winter already. He would like to have some warmer days already. 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, and Greg takes a moment before he asks: “Are _you_ over it?”

Mycroft looks visibly surprised by the question, which makes Greg frown. Has anyone actually asked that before?

“I’m fine,” Mycroft says. “I did know what Sherlock was doing, the hardest part for me was that I had to pretend I was mourning my brother, when at the same time I was also keeping in contact with it. It was mostly fine.”

“Mostly?” Greg asks.

“Our parents were constantly asking for updates on Sherlock, and there was only so little I could tell them. I did tell them he was alive and had been in contact with me, but that was all I could offer them, and it made them, especially our mother, very anxious,” Mycroft says. “And they made me take a couple of days off after the jump. It was a mess when I got back to work.”

“It was a mess at the Yard, too. The media had both sides covered. Either we were the heroes who had finally realised that Sherlock was a fraud, or either they blamed us for it,” Greg says. 

“I remember that,” Mycroft says. “But it is over. And hopefully, we don’t need to take that sort of actions ever again.”

“Well, if Moriarty's dead—” Greg starts, but Mycroft interrupts him.

“He is.”

“Right,” Greg says, “Moriarty is dead. How many more of that sort of criminal masterminds are out there?”

“There are over seven billion people living in this planet,” Mycroft says. “Someone might turn up.”

“But your lot probably keeps an eye out for it,” Greg says. “Being the Intelligence Service and all that.”

“We try,” Mycroft says, “but not everyone is like James Moriarty. After all, he liked the publicity. After Sherlock got more famous, James Moriarty got sloppier on purpose and left his watermark to be seen. He was, all things considered, easy to track. Naturally, we didn’t know everything he was capable of. He surprised us, me, in the end. Not just by killing himself, but with the plan he made. It was… quite something.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Greg says. Moriarty is not someone he has been thinking a lot lately. Obviously, after the latest incident, there was a few days of hassle over him again, but it died down fast, fortunately. “The things he did were almost ridiculous.”

“They were, indeed,” Mycroft says. “But you, like the police, did well.”

“We try,” Greg says, repeating Mycroft’s words. “But at the time it didn’t seem like we were actually very helpful.”

“Insecurity.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Greg asks. He has heard clearly enough, but the context has him confused. 

“It doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft says.

Greg scoffs lightly. “Can you really blame me?”

Mycroft looks at him with questions in his eyes. Greg takes a breath, he’s not actually sure how to say this, but he tries anyway.

“You make me realise how little I, or we as the police, actually know about anything.”

“You know all you need to know,” Mycroft says, as if it was that easy.

“Thanks,” Greg sighs.

Mycroft studies him for a moment. “You want to know more,” he says then, not asking. 

Greg shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Greg lets out a frustrated grunt. “Because it makes me angry not to. I mean I’m used to feeling like an idiot in your or Sherlock’s company, you two do that to other people, but I’m actually not an idiot, you know.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, sounding unsure of what Greg is trying to say. “I can’t tell you much. There is a reason why the police operate in different units with different functions.”

“I know that,” Greg says. Mycroft’s unwillingness makes Greg pugnacious. “But I’d like to know _something_.”

“About what exactly?”

“I don’t _know_ , that’s the problem,” Greg says. “The world, I guess? Like if there’s gonna be a terrorist attack we don’t know about. I really don’t want to hear about that sort of thing afterwards.”

Mycroft stays silent for a long moment. Greg starts to think he’s going to stay quiet for the rest of the evening, trying to avoid Greg’s request. 

“Fine,” Mycroft says eventually. “I’ll try to tell you _something_ if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Greg says, and he means it.

“But you really shouldn’t think yourself down. You probably know something I don’t,” Mycroft says. Greg snorts, as if that would be even slightly possible.

“Like what? Nothing important surely,” he says.

“About… life,” Mycroft says. It’s a bad excuse for an answer, but Greg takes it. He won’t get anything else if he tried to push it.

“Like what?” Greg asks again. “I really don’t know anything about life, really.”

“But you do, don’t you? About human relations and socialisation,” Mycroft says.

Greg knits his brows, trying to understand what Mycroft is saying between the lines. “Right. And you don’t?”

“No.”

Greg scoffs. That’s bullshit, really. He doesn’t know who has made Mycroft think he doesn’t know anything about _socialisation_ , seriously, the man works in politics, and he must know quite a bit about how humans work—the whole observation skill is rather useless, if he wouldn’t know why or how people worked.

“Aha,” Greg says, then points between the two of them. “What’s this then?”

Mycroft’s lips are a thin line, his expression gets stony and unreadable, and Greg _hates_ it.

“To where I’m standing this looks a lot like socialisation, and it’s going relatively smoothly into the category of human relations,” Greg says, and realises a second too late he has made Mycroft actually uncomfortable, or so it seems. Greg tries to read him, he tries to see what is it that Mycroft’s trying to hide him very hard. Greg would appreciate it if Mycroft would let some emotion through for once. 

“Alright,” Greg says, he has run out of points to make. “I should probably go. I have work tomorrow.”

That makes Mycroft jerk out of the stone. “You do?”

“Yes,” Greg says smiling, “because _someone_ got my Friday night free, and that usually means a Saturday or Sunday shift. And I got Saturday, so.”

“I see,” Mycroft says. “I’ll just call for the car.”

He does that, and Greg waits. Then Mycroft informs the car will pick them up in a couple of minutes, and they leave the building together. Greg puts on his jacket on the way out of the door.

“So, have you always had offices like this or the one in Whitehall?” Greg asks.

“No,” Mycroft says. “There has been a time I was barely important enough to have my own desk. Everyone starts somewhere.”

“I guess so. I mean, when I got my own table at the Scotland Yard, it was the coolest thing. But this,”—he gestures back at the building they’ve exited—“is ridiculous.”

“So you’ve said,” Mycroft says, but he doesn’t sound at all annoyed, more like a bit amused.

The car arrives quickly, and they sit in the back. It’s quiet in the car for a few blocks. There is some traffic, as it is a Friday night, but it’s mostly cabs, but it makes the drive feel longer.

“I wish to see you again,” Mycroft says, when they arrive at Greg’s home street. Greg turns to look at Mycroft, he doesn’t look at Greg but has his face turned to the window. Their eyes meet from the reflection, and after that Mycroft turns his head to face Greg, as if the window has betrayed him.

“Yeah,” Greg only now realises to speak.

“I’ll gather some things to tell you,” Mycroft says as the car slows down, then stops.

Greg laughs. “Thanks.” He unfastens the seat belt and gets out.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


  
  


A relatively quiet week goes by. Nothing especially interesting happens that week. There are few easy cases that keep them busy, but not too busy, and they are easily solved, but not too easy. It’s normal, and weekdays merge into one other in a way that it makes it hard to keep up with the date. In between other cases they’ve investigated and solved, Greg has still had two files on his desk; Mark White’s and Nina and Jessica Owens’s. He has opened them up every now and then, but it hasn’t helped much. He has kept them in his mind, but as the evidence has run out, and nothing else has come out, the cases have started to go cold. But Greg can’t shake off the feeling that he is missing something. He has gone through both of the cases on their own and together. There are a few things that are too similar to not go unnoticed, but not so much that it would inevitably register as equivalent. Both Mark White and Nina Owen have parts of their life missing, even though they are unlike; Mark has faked his death, and Nina has years missing, but in both cases, the people closest to them have known them only for a couple of years. The gun profile seems to match, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There are only so many different kinds of handguns available, but still; once is chance, twice is a coincidence. Maybe he’s waiting for the third.

Mark White is still a mystery, they haven’t found out his fake identity, which has made the whole case turn into a cul-de-sac. Nina Owen’s past is a mystery, but Jessica Owen seems to have been an ordinary woman. Greg doesn’t think their murder has been a hate crime, there are too many things amiss, and coincidences are not something he runs into often.

The quietness is broken when John calls Greg on one afternoon. Greg hasn’t heard of either John or Sherlock since Rosie’s Christening. The first though Greg has is that someone is wrong, it’s usually Greg who calls Sherlock or John about a case or something like that, so it’s always rather worrying when the caller is John.

“Hi,” Greg says, answering the call. “Everything alright?”

“ _Hello_ ,” John says, he sounds normal, and Greg’s pulse calms down a lot. “ _Everything’s fine. Just a case we need your help with._ ”

“This must be a record of sorts,” Greg laughs. “A case Sherlock needs help with twice in a month.”

“ _Yes, well,_ ” John says, “ _we can’t really arrest people, can we?_ ” 

“I guess not,” Greg says. “Baker Street?”

“ _If you could, yeah,_ ” John answers. Greg promises to be there in ten since he has nothing else to do. He gets his jacket and car keys, tells Sally where he’s going if he’s needed, and leaves.

He arrives at Baker Street a couple of minutes earlier than he has thought. He goes straight to the front door and knocks, and waits for someone to open the door for him. He gets a bit surprised when John’s the one who opens the door.

“Hi,” John says, letting him inside. “Glad you could make it.”

“No worries,” Greg says. “We really didn’t have anything else going on,” he says. It’s partially true since there really isn’t anything _urgent_ going on. Just those couple of cases that are turning colder and colder as they speak.

They go up the stairs and John point at the living room. Greg goes in. Sherlock is there sitting in front of his laptop, and Mary is standing behind him, looking at the screen with baby Rosie on her arms.

“Hi,” Greg greets them. Only Mary turns to look at him, Sherlock is, unsurprisingly, too focused on the laptop to care about Greg, but before anyone else can say anything, Sherlock chimes in.

“Don’t start to tattle,” Sherlock says firmly. “We have work to do.” Greg snorts, Mary raises her eyebrows and John is absolutely unbothered by Sherlock.

“What have you got, then?” Greg asks and goes to see what Sherlock is doing.

“A possible identity theft and, erm, well, basically a man is pretending to be more than one person at the same time, and he’s gone so far with it that he’s now married to one woman and one man,” John says.

“Sounds like he’s gotten himself into a bisexual dream, though,” Greg says. “Do you know his name?”

“We have three names,” Sherlock says. “And neither one of them is the real one.”

“That’s nice and easy then,” Greg says. “Who’s the client? The wife or the husband?”

“The husband,” Sherlock says. “He noticed there was something off when he found a bill that was addressed to someone else with their address. He though his husband was just cheating.”

“Just cheating,” Greg repeats. “Nice way to put it.”

John clears his throat, as Sherlock has opened his mouth to say something, and hurries to talk over him. “So do you know what we should do now?”

“You’ve solved the case, but you don’t know who the man is?” Greg asks.

“We so,” Sherlock says. “We know where he lives.”

“Well, how about we pay him a visit? Let’s ask who he really is and why he’s gotten all those other aliases to go by.”

“We already tried that,” Sherlock says. “Didn’t go as planned. He claims he has never seen the woman he’s supposed to be married with.”

“But?”

“He was obviously lying. He was just really good at it, which is not surprising, he has at least three different aliases, and he’s still running them all very cleverly.”

“Right,” Greg says, rubbing his neck. “What do you want me to do?”

“Look up everything you can find about these three names,” Sherlock says and hands Greg a piece of paper. It has three names written on it: John Smith, Jack Jones and George Williams.

“Are you fucking serious?” Greg asks. He knows some basic mathematics and comparing all the people named John Smith, Jack Jones and George Williams, they’re talking about tens of thousands people in the UK alone.

“So you see our problem,” Sherlock says.

“Who even gets an alias of John Smith any more?” Greg asks.

“Many people, actually,” Sherlock says. “It’s so clever. And this man is particularly clever.”

“So it seems,” Greg says. “I can try, but I don’t think it’ll be much use. To be honest, I think you’d get faster answers if you just called Mycroft instead.”

“Uh, no,” Sherlock says straight away. “Mycroft doesn’t use his time for these things. And I don’t _want_ his help.”

“Alright,” Greg says, he’s not surprised, but it was worth a try. He wonders if he could ask Mycroft himself, without Sherlock finding out. He could send him an email, maybe? If he knew Mycroft’s email address, that it. If Mycroft even had an email address. Bugger it.

“I’ll try,” Greg says.

“Please, do,” John says, before Sherlock can open his mouth. “This is getting quite annoying.”

“It’s going _fine_ ,” Sherlock says. Greg is turning to leave, when Sherlock suddenly shouts. “Oh, finally!”

Greg turns again to look at the laptop screen. There is a CCTV footage playing, a timestamp on the upper right corner tells it’s live. There is a man, standing in front of a house. Greg can only assume he’s this John Smith character.

“Do I even want to know how you can access these?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, matter-of-factly, “he’s getting sloppy.”

“And why are you spying on him?” Greg asks.

“Because he was lying earlier. This is his wife’s house,” Sherlock says, then adds: “Or their house. I wanted to make sure he was lying.”

“Because you were worried you’ve got it wrong?” Greg asks.

“Yes,” say Mary and John at the same time as Sherlock deadpans: “No.”

“Sure,” Greg says. “I’ll go back and see what I can do about it. I’ll call you if anything comes up, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Thanks, Greg,” John says.

“No problem,” Greg says, even if he knows it’s most likely going to be a problem.

As he goes back to his car, he texts Mycroft. He knows it’s probably useless, but it won’t hurt to ask.

_Could you do me a favour? I have a few names that need to be checked, and the Met probably isn’t enough for them. It’s in Sherlock’s case. Call me._

Greg’s thoughts hover above _Call me_ for a moment. It sounds informal in a way that could make Mycroft uncomfortable, but what else could he say? Contact me via your phone? Maybe not. He sends the text.

Greg drives back to the station, asks Sally if anything new has come up while he was gone, but it sounds like everything is still very quiet. Greg goes to his office and opens up the police database. He types in John Smith and sighs even before he presses enter. It’s not a surprise when he gets a number that would take him three months to get through. He tries the other two, and the number just gets up. He tries comparing the names, and he reads up some results he gets, but it looks very unlikely he’d get anything particularly helpful out of the database.

He gets himself a cup of coffee, and daydreams for a moment of a cigarette, but goes back to his desk. He tries again, but nothing has changed. There is no sudden realisation. It’s probably best to try and get the man himself into a hearing than attempting to get something out of the aliases. He texts John a short _No go_ , but doesn’t get an answer. He then types in identity theft and reads up. It really isn’t something he could say he knows awfully lot about. He knows about murder and murders, but this sort of thing is not very usual for him. Sometimes he wishes Sherlock would be a little easier to work with, so Greg didn’t have to be the only officer willing to work with him. Dimmock sometimes went to get Sherlock’s help, but these kind of things aren’t really Dimmock’s specialities either. Greg rubs his eyes. He understands why Sherlock and John are struggling with the case. The idea of dragging the man in for a questioning starts to get more and more powerful in his mind.

Greg phone rings just then. Finally, he thinks, as the screen says _M. Holmes._

“Hi,” Greg says, his voice sounds relieved even to his ears.

“ _Afternoon_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _Is this about the John Smith case?_ ”

Greg snorts. “Are you actually calling it that?”

“ _No_ ,” Mycroft says, “ _Dr Watson is calling it that_.”

“Right,” Greg says. “But yet, it’s about that. Can you work it out? Or someone in there. These names are ridiculous, and I think I can’t just arrest someone because they might have three different names:”

“ _I could send Anthea in_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _She’ll take a look at it._ ”

“Wait,” Greg says, slowly. “Is Anthea some kind of genius too?”

Greg can hear Mycroft’s chuckle. “ _She has the access to MI5 database_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Well, then, if you can spear her, please do.”

“ _I will. She’ll be there shortly._ ”

“Thank you,” Greg says. “Really. I owe you. Or Anthea. Or someone, I don’t even care.”

“ _Don’t mention it_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _Anthea will be there as soon as the traffic lets her. Goodbye._ ”

“Bye,” Greg says, quickly before Mycroft ends the call. He sighs. Then he sighs again as he realises Sally will never shut up about this, if she sees Anthea coming around again. Greg decides he should go wait for Anthea outside. He could use the time for smoking since he has already been waiting for it for hours. He takes his jacket and goes outside. He lights up his cigarette, and pulls the collars up as the wind is blowing freezing air onto his skin. He waits, he smokes, and in a few minutes, a black Jaguar stops at the car park.

Anthea steps out, she has a laptop bag with her, and a long coat on. Her hair is down, and it makes it swirl around her head, but somehow she is still looking very professional. And maybe a bit creepy. There’s just something about her.

“Hi,” Greg says. “Thanks for coming.”

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” Anthea says. “Happy to be at assistance.”

“Let’s go in,” Greg says and nod at the door. He leads Anthea in, and by some miracle, there’s no one around that would care about Anthea’s presence, but that doesn’t last long. Greg curses the glass walls of his office to the lowest level of Hell. People talk, that is all, and the more Greg would try to explain it, the fewer people will believe him.

“Right,” Greg says, as he and Anthea step into his office and Anthea sits down. “Coffee?” he asks.

“Well, to be quite honest with you, sir,” Anthea says, smiling apologetic, “if it’s the bad coffee from your break room coffee machine, I would like to decline the offer.”

“It is,” Greg says slowly. He should probably ask her how she knows about the Scotland Yard’s bad coffee, but there really are only two possible reasons; either she does the whole deduction thing too, or Mycroft has especially told her about the coffee. Or maybe Mycroft has warned her about it.

“Can you give me the names?” Anthea asks, and Greg hands her the piece of paper Sherlock has given him.

“This is Mary Watson’s handwriting,” Anthea says. “Oh, isn’t he a clever one.”

“Who?”

“The man with aliases like this,” Anthea says. “Let’s see then, shall we?” She takes out her laptop, opens it up, types something, then something more. Her fingers fly on the keyboard with a pace that could be impossible for Greg to even try. Greg look Anthea over the laptop, her face is unreadable, her eyes move fast as she reads.

“Is Mr Holmes sure these are the aliases?” Anthea asks.

“I think so,” Greg says, “though, he only spoke of two aliases, three names.”

“So one of those names is his actual name?” Anthea asks, looking at the list.

“Probably, yeah.”

“Let’s hope it’s not John Smith,” Anthea mutters, then types yet another thing. “He’s not in any of our knows lists of aliases.”

“What’s that?” Greg asks.

“Well, agents, domestic violence victims etcetera. Do they have a visual on him? We could do face recognition on him,” Anthea says.

“They do, actually,” Greg says. “Let me just give them a quick call.” Greg takes out his phone and calls Sherlock. Sherlock takes way too long to answer, and when he does, he sounds irritated.

“ _Lestrade_ ,” Sherlock says, “ _you went to Mycroft_.”

“Hello to you too,” Greg says, looking at Anthea. She has both of her eyebrows raised. “You have visual on the man, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock answers. “ _Why?_ ”

“Could you send me a picture?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock says slowly. “ _Why did you go to Mycroft? Did he actually help you? Christ, I’m going to win a bet._ ”

“What bet?”

“ _Forget it. What kind of picture do you need?_ ” Sherlock asks. Greg looks at Anthea, and points at the phone. Anthea nods.

“I’ll give the phone to Anthea, she’ll tell you.”

“ _Fine_.”

Greg gives the phone to Anthea, she takes it. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” she says. Greg can hear Sherlock’s muffled voice speaking on the other end of the call. “Yes, I know,” Anthea says smiling, then adds: “About the picture.”

Greg stops listening at that point. Anthea has the phone between her shoulder and ear, she types rapidly at the same time.

“Alright, thank you, Mr Holmes,” Anthea says after a moment, she stops typing. “I’ve got it,” she says, then she hands the phone back to Greg.

“ _Call me when you have something_ ,” Sherlock says to Greg.

“I will,” he promises and ends the call. He puts the phone into his jeans pocket and looks at Anthea. She’s frowning.

“Hm,” Anthea mutters. “This is interesting.”

“What is?” Greg asks.

Anthea turns the laptop over so Greg can see. The picture is on the screen: the man has dark hair, little facial hair, glasses and brown eyes. There is a text beneath the picture: _No matches found._

“What the hell does that mean?” Greg asks. Anthea clears her throat and takes her own phone out.

“Well, there are a few possible scenarios,” she says as she types on her phone. “One is that he has had a face transplant, which sounds quite unbelievable.”

“Are you serious?” Greg groans.

“Yes,” Anthea says, then puts her phone to her ear. “I’ll try the Home Office.”

Greg feels baffled, the whole thing starts to seem like some sort of practical joke to him. He rubs his eyes in frustration.

“Good afternoon,” Anthea says on to the phone. “This is Mr Holmes’s Private Assistant Antonina Rabinowitz, security number two, five, nine, zero, R, L, A, zero, zero, three. Can you get me through to Mrs O’Brien, please? Yes, I can wait, thank you.”

Greg’s rather pleased with himself that he knows, what he assumes is Anthea’s real name. It takes a few minutes before Anthea speaks again.

“Good afternoon, Mrs O’Brien, thank you for taking my call. Look, I have something you’d like to know—”

Anthea explains the situation, tells the names, send the picture, and then listens. She bites her lower lip and looks way too worried for Greg’s liking. Greg rolls a pencil between his fingers. Anthea is still listening, she makes humming noises every now and then, but otherwise, she’s just listening.

“Yes,” Anthea says finally, “yes, I do have Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade here with me. Yes, indeed.”

Greg tries to ask questions with his eyes, but Anthea doesn’t look at him. She has her focus back at the computer screen.

“Very well,” Anthea says, “thank you, Mrs O’Brien. Yes, he is fine. I will tell him. Thank you, you too. Goodbye.” She ends the call, then looks at Greg.

“So?” Greg asks impatiently.

“I need to call Mrs Watson,” Anthea says.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yes, Mrs Mary Watson. Do you have her phone number?”

“Yeah, wait,” Greg says, searching for Mary’s phone number from his phone’s contact list, and then tells it to Anthea. Anthea types in the number and makes the call.

“Afternoon, Mrs Watson, this is Mr Holmes’s Private Assistant Anthea speaking,” Anthea says. Greg notices how she doesn’t give her real name to Mary, it makes him feel like he has some sort of privilege knowing it.

“I believe you’re helping Mr Holmes and Dr Watson in the investigations of the triple-named man,” Anthea says. Greg hears Mary’s answer faintly over the phone, then Anthea says: “This concerns Portland 2007.”

Then, Anthea looks at Greg, her eyes have a certain look on them. Anthea waves her hand at Greg, the motion is shooing. Greg raises his eyebrows. Anthea does it again, then she points at Greg, then the office door.

Greg scoffs. “You can’t be serious,” he mutters, but stands up and goes to the door. Anthea is still looking at him, so Greg opens the door and leaves his office. He closes the door behind him and at the same time, he takes his phone back out. He dials Mycroft.

Mycroft answers the call quickly, and before he can say anything, Greg says: “I’ve been kicked out off my own fucking office. By your bloody PA.”

Mycroft _chuckles_. “ _Yes, she does that sometimes. No need to feel so angry about it._ ”

“What is Portland 2007?” Greg asks. Mycroft is silent for a long minute.

“ _That is a conversation we’ll have some other time,_ ” Mycroft says. “ _And not on the phone._ ”

“So, it’s secretive?” Greg asks. “Like, top secret?”

“ _Quite so_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Fine,” Greg says. “Fine. Just, could you say to Anthea that she’s really lovely and all that, but she really can’t just kick me out of my office like that.”

“ _I could say that, but she can be very obnoxious at times._ ”

“I wonder who she’s taken that from,” Greg mutters. He glances back at his office. Anthea seems to be packing her things already. “Alright, I believe I can get back now.”

“ _You go then_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I hope Anthea has been helpful._ ”

“We’ll see,” Greg says, then says his goodbyes, ends the call and enters his office. Anthea is zipping up his bag.

“Did you get anything?” Greg asks.

“I think this is now the Security Service’s problem,” Anthea says. “There are certain aspects of this investigation that go beyond Mr Holmes and Dr Watson’s usual repertoire. And the Metropolitan Police Service doesn’t have the authorities to do this.”

“So, you’re taking the case to MI5?” he asks, he’s not very surprised since the Home Office has already been contributing.

Anthea nods. “I believe so. We will be in touch if the situation needs it.” She takes a few steps towards the door.

“Do you need a lift?” Greg asks.’

“No, thank you,” she says smiling. “I assume there is a car waiting for me.”

“Of course. Let me walk you down,” Greg says. They get as much as out from the door, when Sally comes around the corner and stops. She looks at Anthea, then Greg.

“Hello, _Anthea_ ,” Sally says, putting exaggerated emphasis on the name. Anthea looks at Greg, then turns to Sally.

“Afternoon, Sergeant Donovan,” Anthea says sweetly.

“So,” Sally begins, she tries very hard to keep her face expressionless, “what are you doing here?”

Anthea looks at Sally, then Greg, then back at Sally, narrows her eyes, then smiles widely. “Oh, I’ve been summoned here by Mr Holmes. And I’m quite happily married to my wife if you were wondering.”

It’s Greg’s turn to bite down his grin. Sally looks only a little taken back by this new information.

“Oh, okay,” Sally says. “Sure. Go on, then,” she says, steps out of the way and gives Greg a long look full of questions. Greg mouths _Later_ , puts a guiding hand on Anthea’s back and leads the way back downstairs.

There is, indeed, a car waiting for Anthea. The driver gets out of the car and opens the back door for Anthea.

“Than you for your help,” Greg says. “Even though it means I don’t get to do anything any more.”

“You’re welcome,” Anthea says, “and I know you’re not sorry about the situation,” she adds, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m not,” Greg admits.

“Goodbye, Detective Inspector,” Anthea says, getting into the car. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Greg waves his hand as a goodbye. The car drives away, and as Greg walks back to the building, he texts Sherlock.

_MI5 took the case. Whine to your brother if you’re not happy._

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


  
  


It’s the last Saturday of March when a drunk driver crashes into a car in front of David and Emma Welsborough’s house. Greg is on duty at the time, and when a new deputy, whose name Greg can’t remember even if his life depended on it, calls his work phone twenty minutes after they have heard of the car chase, he knows something is wrong even before he answers the call.

The Welsborough’s are obviously shaken by the car crash, but even so about the dead body found in their son’s car. David Welsborough tells them their son, Charlie, is spending his gap year travelling and the last time they have heard of him, he has been in Tibet, and ever since Charlie left, the car has been there in the front yard, and no one has used it. For their knowledge, that it, because obviously someone has been in the car, and that someone is now quite dead. The body is taken away for autopsy, and the forensic team examines both cars. The drunk driver is fine, but the paramedics take him to get a check-up. He has some burns, but nothing lethal. He’s going to be okay, which is a good thing, even if he has been drunk driving and ran away from the police. But being a criminal is better than being dead.

Before Greg gets home that evening, he looks at the case files of Mark White and Nina and Jessica Owen. He’s not going to take them home with him, he’s pretty sure he knows them by heart at this point, but he _really_ hopes the pile won’t get higher with this new mystery body. At some point the unsolved cases will get to him.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello.  
> sooooo, I'm trying very hard not to feel embarrassed that it took me a whole month to get this chapter ready. I've had a pretty tough time with ocpd acting up, but I did it. I can't really say if the next chapter will be any easier, but at least I got over this one and oh boy, this chapter man. if I did chapter names, this would be "alexa, play girl crush by little big down".

It takes a couple of days to get the confirmation, but the corpse is Charlie Welsborough, David and Emma Welsborough’s son who was supposed to be in Tibet. And if that wouldn’t have been enough, it gets even better: Charlie Welsborough has been dead for a week before the car crash. The fire has destroyed almost all the evidence from the body, so the cause of death is not easily tracked. But the autopsy doesn’t suggest that he has experienced any major violence, which doesn’t help exactly.

The thing is, that Greg feels like it’s connected somehow. Maybe he’s getting delusional with Mark White’s and the Owens’s case files still on his desk, but it seems awfully similar with Mark White’s death. Mark White was killed somewhere else than where he was found. Charlie Welsborough was last located in Tibet, but a week later his body is found from a car outside his parent’s house. There are a lot of unanswered questions in Greg’s mind. Did Charlie die in Tibet? If so, how did he end up back in the UK and inside his car outside his parents’ house? Did someone kill him and move him back there? How they could have done it and not get seen by the Welsboroughs while they were on it? Why would have anyone want to kill Charlie Welsborough anyway? What Greg has found out is that the only special thing about Charlie Welsborough is his father’s position as a Cabinet Minister. It’s not unusual for politicians to make people so angry they start to get threats or warnings, but it has been a long while since someone has died because of that. It doesn’t seem likely if Charlie was killed, and it was because of his father, it would have been clearer.

It’s very frustrating to see how the unknowing makes Mr and Mrs Welsborough crumble. Mrs Welsborough is a mess, it’s almost impossible to get even one whole sentence out of her without her voice breaking and tears leaking out of her eyes. Mr Welsborough seems to be able to keep his calm better, but he’s a politician, so that could explain that.

After a couple of days of searching and guessing possible scenarios, Greg takes another turn. He turns his focus back to the Mark White case, and even if he knows the case by heart already, he reads the reports again. He’s not exactly sure what he’s looking for, but something, _anything_ , that would connect Mark White and Charlie Welsborough. It might be a wild goose hunt for what it’s worth, but it won’t hurt to check? After a few hours, Greg has to admit that there is nothing they know of that would connect Mark White to any politics or Charlie Welsborough to Mark White. It’s not a surprise but still stings. If he found a connection, it could help with both of the cases. It would make things easier and more satisfying. But there is nothing. And then he gets the other realisation: there is nothing they, as the police, can really do. But there is one person who could help, as there always is. It’s not the first time a case like this has drop onto Greg’s lap and made him lose all of his self-confidence. Sherlock could help, and to be honest, the case is right at Sherlock’s repertoire. It’s weird, it has very little evidence to go by, and it’s getting more and more plausible for the media to get interested. David Welsborough has used his power to keep the media out of the case, for now. He seems overall like a good guy. Greg is more than happy that David Welsborough is not that kind of a politician who would do anything to get more publicity and potential voters by sharing a personal tragedy to the media. The death of his son has been made public, but otherwise, the media has been out of it. But that will last only for a short period of time. The longer the case will go on, the more likely it is that the knowledge of it will leak.

  
  


Getting Sherlock’s help would sound like a reasonable thing. But, because of course, there is a _but_ , Greg is hesitant. For multiple reasons. And one of them is actually solved with one phone call, but that alone is a _but_ Greg would like to not to have around. However, he now has three unsolved cases, two of them which are getting colder by the minute, and one that has a Cabinet Minister’s dead son in it, and one of them has to be solved as soon as possible, or Greg can say goodbye to a good nights sleep. He takes the _but_ and turns it into determination, takes his phone and calls Mycroft.

It takes three beeps for Mycroft to answer.

“ _Good morning_ ,” Mycroft says, he sounds only a little bit annoyed. That could be a good or a bad sign, Greg doesn’t really know nor does he care.

“Hello,” Greg says. “I have two questions.”

“ _Well, let’s hear them then_ ,” Mycroft says, then adds: “ _I’m on a tight schedule, I’m waiting for a call from the Prime Minister._ ”

“Of course, you are,” Greg says, shaking his head. “I guess you already know what case I’m working on.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says, matter-of-factly, “ _the death of David Welsborough’s son._ ”

“Yep. And I’ve got nothing,” Greg says, then, after a moment. “Well, when I say nothing, I mean, I’ve got some ideas, but that’s the other thing here.”

“ _Please, say what you’re thinking about so we can do something about it.”_

“Right. So, I think, and this is just a hunch I’m having—”

“ _Naturally_ ,” Mycroft says in between.

“Thanks,” Greg snorts. “Anyway, I think it might be connected to two other cases. Maybe. But I don’t think we can solve this one without Sherlock, but I’m not exactly sure if you’d want to get Sherlock involved with the other two.”

“ _And which cases would those other two be?_ ”

“Mark White, then man Sherlock was investigating, who had already been dead for years before his disappearance. And Jessica and Nina Owen,” Greg says. He waits for a moment, another moment, but there is only silence. “Mycroft?”

“ _Yes, I heard you_ ,” Mycroft says acutely.

“Right,” Greg says slowly, frowning to himself. He picks up a pen from the desk and starts rolling it around his middle finger. “So, do you think it’d be a good idea to get Sherlock on the case?”

“ _I have no objection_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _What makes you think they’re connected?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Greg says, scoffing. “I guess I just… wish they were, to be honest.”

“ _Well_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _That sure sounds like a hunch._ ”

“Fuck off,” Greg says without any fire on his voice. “I’ll go around Sherlock’s if nothing comes up, say, today.”

“ _Very well_ ,” Mycroft says, then after a moment. “ _How’s your next Tuesday looking?_ ”

“Normal,” Greg says, without really thinking about it. “Why?”

“ _I think there are a few things we were supposed to talk about_ ,” Mycroft says. Greg remembers at once the Portland 2007 business he never got an answer for. “ _I haven’t had time earlier to see you, but if you have time after Easter—_ ”

“Oh, fuck,” Greg grunts accidentally out loud. “It’s Easter, isn’t it?”

“ _Well, yes_ ,” Mycroft says, he sounds a little confused. “ _Is that a no?_ ”

“What? No, it’s not a no,” Greg says, “I have time, I think, yeah. It’s just, I bloody forgot it’s Easter.”

“ _Ah,_ ” Mycroft says, but doesn’t really sound at all convinced. 

“I’ll get back to you about next Tuesday, alright?”

“ _Sure_.”

“I need to make a call, and you have stuff with the PM, so I’ll leave you to it,” Greg says, looking at the tabletop calendar he has on his desk. He hasn’t changed the month, his office is still living in March, although in the outside world of the month has already changed to April. No wonder he has forgotten about Easter. Bloody hell, he curses himself, Maggie will be _pissed_ at him. 

They say their goodbyes with Mycroft, and as soon as the call ends, Greg rings another number. He doesn’t have to wait long for Maggie to answer.

“ _Well, if that ain’t the radio silence expert of this family,_ ” Maggie greets him. She doesn’t actually sound that pissed about it, but Greg can hear the truth underneath her joking tone.

“Hello to you, too,” Greg says. “Look—” he starts, but before he gets any further, Maggie starts speaking.

“ _Look yourself_ ,” she says. “ _We know you’re a busy man with a lot of responsibilities._ ”

“That doesn’t really make me feel any better.”

“ _I know_ ,” Maggie says softly. “ _And I’m not trying to guilt trip you or anything. Just, would’ve been nice if you’d came._ ”

“I know,” Greg says too. “I’m in the middle of a case that needs to be solved as soon as possible, and fairly enough, death doesn’t look at the calendar.” Neither did Greg, apparently, but Maggie doesn’t need to know that.

“ _What kind of a case?_ ” Maggie asks. She doesn’t really want to know, but Greg likes her for always asking.

“Have you heard about the Cabinet Minister’s son?”

“ _I think so, yeah_ ,” Maggie answers. “ _But I’m sure there was nothing about a crime._ ”

“Yeah, well, there is, I think,” Greg says. “And we’re sort of under a lot of pressure because of it.”

“ _So, is this the politician friend of yours, then?_ ” Maggie asks. It takes Greg a moment to realise what she’s talking about.

“Who? Mycroft? No,” Greg says, almost laughing. “And he’s not a politician. Probably.”

“ _Right,_ ” Maggie says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “ _Well, I hope you’ll solve it quickly either way. Thommy came home last weekend, though._ ”

“How’s he?” Greg asks, looking out of the glass wall of his office. If someone needs him, he’ll be reachable, but it won’t hurt anyone if he asked what’s going on in his nephew’s life on duty.

“ _Fine, fine_ ,” Maggie says. “ _Apparently he’s seeing someone._ ”

“And?” Greg asks, he knows Maggie has opinions about whoever her sons do and don’t date.

“ _Sounds like a nice lad_ ,” Maggie says like that was all she really thought. Greg thinks he needs to go see Maggie as soon as possible if he wants to get the whole story.

“Well, that’s nice,” Greg says. “Tell him hello from me.”

“ _Will do,_ ” Maggie says. “ _And you call Mum, she’ll go all mopey over me again if you don’t_.” 

“Will do,” Greg repeats her earlier words. “I need to go,” he says then, as he sees Sally approaching his office. “Talk to you soon, alright.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Maggie says. “ _Bye._ ”

“Bye.” Greg ends the call, turns around with his chair as Sally knocks on the door. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sally says, frowning. “Really, nothing.” Greg sighs, he has hoped something would have come up, but apparently not.

“Are you going to go to Sherlock?” Sally asks.

Greg nods. “Yeah, we can’t do anything, and in a couple of days we’ll have every journalist and their family on our front door questioning our capability as detectives,” he says.

“Not like that’s something new,” Sally sighs.

“You can say that again,” Greg says. “Do you want to get over it again?” he asks then, and then they do just that. It’s not like there is anything else to do.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


Yet again, it takes Sherlock a ridiculously short time to figure the whole thing out. It always sounds so simple, when Sherlock explains everything, but then again, it’s Sherlock. He makes a lot of things seem easier and simpler than they actually are. And, to be fair, he doesn’t really care how simple Sherlock made it sound like since the most important thing is that the case is solved, and hopefully the knowledge will give some consolation for David and Emma Welsborough.

Greg has Monday and Tuesday off after Sherlock has solved the death of Charlie Welsborough and all the paperwork for it is done. Sunday afternoon, when Greg left from work, he took the binders from his desk with him. He’s a bit disappointed if he’s honest with himself. It has been a month since Mark White’s body was found from the Isle of Dogs, and the case is basically on the verge of getting into the category of unsolved and freezing cold. Some cases take longer to solve, that’s a harsh truth, but it’s not very likely for an investigation to get anywhere if any clues haven’t come up in weeks. Greg has a piece of paper attached on the binder with a paper clip, and on the paper, Greg has written everything he knows about the killer, everything Sherlock and a handwriting specialist from the forensic team has gotten from the letters the killer has written to Mark White.

– _male, British or Irish  
– 60—65 years old  
– introverted, doesn’t have many/any friends?  
– intuitive  
– paranoid, doesn’t take criticism  
— so a psychopath or summat?  
– knew Mark White, PERSONAL_

For any other case that would be a very good list and would help them a lot to find the killer, but as Mark White has almost twenty years missing from his records, it basically has every British or Irish man between the ages of sixty to sixty-five, since there is nothing solid that would actually pinpoint something that would help them to eliminate people out of the possible suspects.

  
  


  
  


Mycroft has asked Greg to accompany him for lunch on Tuesday, so when a black car stops on Greg’s home street at lunchtime that day, Greg is already waiting for it, and he has two binders with him. He’s getting desperate, and after a light debate with himself, Greg has decided that asking Mycroft’s help won’t make it any worse. Maybe Mycroft could help him even a little.

And besides, ever since Anthea came to his office and did her MI5 magic, Greg has had a thought in his mind that won’t just let him be. He _has_ to, at least ask, or he’ll never get peace from it.

Greg has expected Mycroft to be sitting in the car, but when Greg sits down in the back seat of the Jaguar, he’s alone. He fastens the seatbelt and clears his throat needlessly loud. He can see the driver looking back at him from the front mirror.

“Everything alright, sir?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” Greg says, “just wondering where we’re going?” he asks, not knowing if it’s actually something he’ll get an answer for. He hasn’t tried it before, asking, which, now that he thinks about it, sounds rather ridiculous. He should have tried at least, he thinks.

“Mr Holmes has asked me to bring you back to his place, sir.”

“Right,” Greg says, he thought they would go to some restaurant or something, but apparently no. “So, uh, what’s your name?” he asks. The driver glances at him again, and for a moment Greg thinks that small talk with the driver isn’t a good idea.

“Pelletier, sir,” the driver, Pelletier, says.

“French?” Greg asks.

“Yes,” Pelletier answers. “Immigrated seven years ago. And you?”

“Nah, I just inherited the name,” Greg says. “The last French person in my family was my grandfather’s grandfather or something like that.”

It’s not a long drive to Pall Mall, and the traffic isn’t too bad either. The drive takes only a few minutes. Greg thanks Pelletier, gets out of the car and goes to the front door of Mycroft’s building. He presses the doorbell next to Mycroft’s name, and waits for the door to click open. He goes inside and up the stairs. This time Mycroft’s door is closed, so Greg knocks on it.

The door opens, and Mycroft lets Greg in.

“Hi,” Greg says, “I thought we were going somewhere else,” he admits.

“Ah, no,” Mycroft says, slowly. “I found myself free for once, and Anthea was kind enough to make sure the rest of the day stays free.”

Greg thinks it’s funny they still call her Anthea, even though Greg now knows her real name. But maybe she prefers Anthea over Antonina.

“That was nice of her,” Greg says. “You don’t have free days often, do you?”

“No,” Mycroft answers, lightly like it wasn’t important to take time off every now and then. Before Greg can say anything else, a vibrating sound interrupts him. It takes Greg a moment to realise it’s Mycroft’s phone. Mycroft takes it out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, sighs heavily, and answers. “Yes, Sherlock?”

Greg grins. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one who sometimes answers Sherlock’s phone calls with a great sigh.

“No, I won’t,” Mycroft says onto the phone. Greg can’t hear what Sherlock is saying, but from the expression on Mycroft’s face, it doesn’t seem to be anything Mycroft is liking. The phone call goes on for a couple of minutes, with Mycroft sighing and declining something from Sherlock over and over again until Sherlock says something that makes Mycroft actually roll his eyes. It makes Greg very interested in what Sherlock has to say.

“I have to go now—” Mycroft starts, then stops and looks at Greg quickly, before turning his eyes away. Greg tries to ask questions with his eyes, but it’s not easy when Mycroft doesn’t look him back.

“Yes,” Mycroft says then, slowly, and after a moment, he finally says his goodbyes. He puts the phone away and looks back at Greg. “I’m sorry about that,” Mycroft says, and grimaces and continues: “Sherlock says hi.”

“Er, thanks,” Greg says, and he’s quite sure he’s making a similar face. He really doesn’t want to know how Sherlock knows, so instead, he asks: “What did he want?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “He wants the John Smith case back. He’s been whining about it ever since he had to give it up, and he really doesn’t take no for an answer. Even though the case was closed the next day Anthea forwarded it to the MI5.” Mycroft gestured for Greg to follow him, they go deeper into the apartment.

“That was quick,” Greg says, he is only a little annoyed that he didn’t know that.

“The MI5 took the case very seriously,” Mycroft says, his tone indicates that follow-up questions won’t get an answer.

“Sounds ominous,” Greg says, mostly to himself. They go past the room they were sitting the last time Greg was there. Greg is still amazed by the apartment, it makes him feel dizzy as he tries to map out the floor plan in his mind. He should be able to do that, if not for any other reason than the fact that he is a detective, but Mycroft’s home seems to be where Greg’s capability doesn’t reach. They go into a kitchen, and Greg is a tad surprised it’s a modern kitchen with all the appliances an ordinary kitchen has. It’s a very nice kitchen, Greg can see that even if he isn’t the most passionate cook himself. On the kitchen island, there are two takeaway containers.

So maybe Greg has gotten slightly excited by the idea of having lunch at Mycroft’s place solely for the possibility of having food Mycroft has made. But that seems to be a bit too much to ask.

“Along with my free afternoon, Anthea also provided me with food,” Mycroft explains. There is a hint of defence in his words that doesn’t go unnoticed by Greg. “I believe it’s Indian.”

“Do you cook?” Greg asks, not being able to contain himself. “I mean, you have a nice kitchen.”

“I _can_ ,” Mycroft says, “but most of the time I don’t have the time nor energy to do it. The kitchen came with the house.”

“You could get a cook or something,” Greg says.

“Do you cook?” Mycroft asks as he takes out the cutlery and placing them on the kitchen island.

“Sometimes,” Greg answers. “When I’m home at dinner time. But it’s not like I’m any good at it. It’s eatable, but that’s about it.”

“Let’s hope this is too,” Mycroft says, gesturing for Greg to take a seat.

“So,” Greg says, settling down at the table and taking one of the containers closer to himself.. “How’s the world?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I thought we were going to discuss Portland,” he says.

“Yeah, we will,” Greg answers, as if he would let that slide. “But tell me about the world first.”

“It goes around,” Mycroft says first, and Greg can’t hide his grin. “It’s much the same as it has been before. The voting in May is keeping me busy, and it’ll only get worse as it gets closer. The outcome will most likely be unexpected for the majority of people.”

“Have you predicted some outcome already?” Greg asks. “It’s April.”

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft says like it was surprised Greg knows the date. “Surveys have been made, and those have been analysed. I’m not the only one who has a hunch of what is to come. And besides, people are predictable.”

“Are they?” Greg asks sincerely. “So what about free will and all that?”

Mycroft smiles a little at his food before he answers. “It’s mostly about nature and nurture, as it’s said. People get easily manipulated by their own thoughts, and individuals’ personal world view, ideologies and convictions are never strictly objective. Neisser’s theory of perceptual cycle is probably the easiest way to explain it, how existing schemas shape the way a person perceives the outside world and new situations and how we, as a nation and a culture, are a predictable group of individuals. An individual’s ideologies strengthen by the way they perceive the world, as the information they consume deepens the already existing schemas which in turn shapes the way they observe things. A free will is there, but the way it’s operating is up to things the human mind does unconsciously.”

“Right,” Greg says.

“Are you going to vote?” Mycroft asks. The question has a tone that makes Greg feel like there is only one way to answer.

“Probably,” he says. “But you have already predicted that, haven’t you?”

“Probably,” Mycroft answers with a hint of a smile. They eat in silence for a moment, until Greg can’t help himself.

“So,” he says. “Portland 2007, or whatever. What was that all about?”

Mycroft chews without hurry, then after a moment, he says: “I gather that you know about Mrs Watson’s past profession?”

Greg takes a moment to answer. He does know something. It’s funny how it’s not very easy to hide things from a detective, especially if someone gets shot. Greg is fairly sure he knows who shot Sherlock a few months ago if the separation of John and Mary was any indication. No one has confirmed anything, but Greg has some idea of what Mary has done in the past.

“I guess she used to be a Bond,” Greg says finally. Mycroft looks at him with an unreadable expression.

“Yes and no.”

“Explain, please,” Greg asks. Mycroft takes yet again a moment.

“We, the government, used to use freelancers, reliable people who did the dirty work, so to speak. The matter we refer to as Portland 2007 was one of those occasions we needed someone to make the journey and do the job. I’m afraid I can’t clear it up any further, but it was a top-secret mission that needed assassins.”

“Wait, what,” Greg interrupts. “ _Assassins_?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says slowly.

“For what reason does the government use assassins?”

Mycroft gives him a tight-lipped smile. “For people like Leon Braddock.”

Greg blinks. He hasn’t even remembered the Braddock case, he hasn’t had time to think about that with all the other cases in his mind.

“You said you _used_ to use them. So you’re not using assassins now?” Greg asks.

“I didn’t say that,” Mycroft corrects. “I said we don’t use freelancers.”

“Ah.” Greg doesn’t know what else he should say. He doesn’t think killing is a way to solve anything, but then again, he’s a detective who solves murders for a living. “Mary used to be an assassin,” he says. Saying it out loud doesn’t feel as weird as he would have thought. Over the time he has known Sherlock, he has come across with so many different things and people that nothing makes him that surprised anymore.

“Quite so,” Mycroft says. “The man Sherlock stumbled upon in his investigation, was someone who wasn’t supposed to be alive any longer, and thus far he had knowledge of things no one should have. That is, among other things, one reason we have stopped using freelancers.”

“So was he —er— eliminated?” Greg asks, trying to sound like he doesn’t care if a man is dead or not, but it’s hard. Mycroft’s silence is an answer enough. Greg sighs.

“You know, when I said I wanted to know things, I didn’t actually think I’ll get to know things like this,” Greg says.

“You wanted to know,” Mycroft says, there are worry and confusion in his voice.

“I did,” Greg says, then corrects himself. “I _do_. But it’s a bit much. I mean, it’s not every day you get a confirmation that your friend’s wife used to be a secret agent of sorts,” he laughs a little.

“That’s right,” Mycroft says. “Not every day.”

After a moment, Greg finally says what he has been thinking of. “So it was Mary. Who shot Sherlock, that it.”

“And yet you think yourself as a bad detective,” Mycroft says, with a hint of a smile in his voice. Greg doesn’t know what to do with the almost praise, so he decides to ignore it.

“No wonder it was so weird between the three of them. I guess I knew. I saw John a couple of times at the time, and he didn’t say a word about his pregnant wife. That was a huge hint something was off, and it was not too difficult to put one and one together.” He stabs his food a few times, still not exactly eating. His head is buzzing. “This is probably an everyday thing for you,” he says.

“What is?”

“Someone you know turns out to be something totally different than you’ve thought of,” Greg explains.

“No,” Mycroft says. “I usually know when someone is something else they claim to be. It’s rare is someone, or something surprises me. But I must say, I was fairly surprised when Mary Watson came into the picture. She was very good at hiding for a few years, I’ll give her that.”

“So, what does it mean?” Greg asks.

“Mean?” Mycroft sounds awfully confused now.

“I was just wondering,” Greg says, thinking how to word it the best way. “Should I be worried?”

“There is no reason for you to worry,” Mycroft says like it was a given. “It would be best if you tried to forget this whole thing altogether.”

Greg frowns. “But they’re my friends.”

“Why does that make a difference?” Mycroft asks. Greg realises the question is not rhetoric at all, but something Mycroft is actually wondering.

“It makes all the difference,” Greg says. “I know them. I’d be —I mean if something happened and I wouldn’t have known—” Mycroft doesn’t let him finish his rambling.

“Greg,” he says, firmly. “There is nothing for you to worry. The earlier matter is dealt with, as I said. The Watson’s are under supervision, and I have understood my brother has a remarkable interest in keeping them safe. And so far, I have the same interest.”

“Right,” Greg says. He tries to listen if he could hear sentiment under Mycroft’s stout words, but if it is there, Mycroft is good at hiding it. “Of course, you do. Sorry.”

Mycroft takes a pause. “No need to apologise.”

Greg stabs his food a few more times, then gathers some into his fork and actually puts something in his mouth. As he chews, he tries to imagine Mary as an assassin, and he has trouble making it up in his head. That probably means she’s good at it, Greg is sure pretending and making false identities is a big part of being a spy or an agent or an assassin or whatever.

“Stop thinking about it,” Mycroft says, but this time it doesn’t sound like an order, his voice is softer.

“I can’t,” Greg says truthfully. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Mycroft studies him for a moment, then shakes his head like he doesn’t like what he learned. “You care so much,” he says, not to Greg so much as to himself.

“Is that a bad thing?” Greg asks.

“Not necessarily, no,” Mycroft says. “But doesn’t it bother you?”

“To care?” Greg asks. Mycroft nods. “No, I don’t think so. I guess some of it comes with the job. It is my job to keep people safe and get justice for people, it would be hard to do that if I didn’t care, I think. It’s a big part of why I wanted to be a police officer.”

“Have you always knows what you wanted to do for a living?” Mycroft asks. Greg notices the change of subject, but he doesn’t mention it, as it’s pretty clear talking about feelings and stuff isn’t the easiest thing for Mycroft.

“I don’t know,” Greg answers. “It seemed cool enough when I was younger. I think I wanted to be a firefighter or something like that when I was little.”

“And that is another line of work where the main goal is to keep people safe,” Mycroft smiles hastily. “Natural protector, it seems.”

Greg snorts. “I guess so. And it’s not like I became a detective by accident, but twenty years old me had rosy glasses and a very much romanticised image of what a detective work actually is. But I think it has been working for me, I’ve only been shot once and hasn’t gotten so traumatised some counselling wouldn’t have done it.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes, and Greg knows that look. He rolls his eyes.

“Go for it,” he says, and adds: “it’s not like you didn’t know already.”

“You got shot in the stomach seventeen years ago.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Greg says, emphasizing the word. “I know you know that.”

“Read it from the papers back then,” Mycroft says, but Greg isn’t sure if that’s the whole truth or is Mycroft only trying to make it seem like he hasn’t deduced that from Greg’s coffee preference or the jeans he’s wearing.

“It was the first time I got my name in the papers,” Greg says, grinning at the memory. “Dad was devastated, but Mum was furious, she left work early to drive down to the hospital only to scream at me how reckless it was for me to get shot. I mean, sure, it was kind of scary to lay on the pavement with a hole in my stomach, but it turned out nice. The scar is barely noticeable, and there was no real damage done.”

“Human body can certainly do astonishing things,” Mycroft says.

“Well, in my opinion, healing from a gunshot is only in the top five, but sure,” Greg says, mostly to see if he can get any reaction out of Mycroft. He doesn’t, and he feels only a little disappointed.

Mycroft takes a moment to eat, before he speaks again, not actually looking at Greg as he speaks. “I have to disagree with your mother about being reckless. I’ve been keeping an eye on your work for the past ten years or so, and I wouldn’t call your way of doing your job reckless in any way.”

“Thanks,” Greg says, lost of any other words to say.

“I consider your work to be quite incredible at times,” Mycroft says, apparently not noticing Greg’s bafflement. Greg laughs out loud.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks.

Mycroft looks up at him. “You heard me.”

“Right.” Greg tries not to smile too widely, but he thinks he fails terribly. “I would say the same to you, but can’t really say I have any opinions on your work, so.”

“Take the compliment, Greg.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. Mycroft still makes his name sounds so weird coming out of his mouth. But be that as it may, Greg doesn’t actually have any difficulties to take compliments, but because he believes Mycroft is someone who doesn’t go around giving people compliments, he has an urge to not let it go.

“Why do you think my work is so good?” Greg asks. For a moment he thinks Mycroft doesn’t take the bait, that he’ll let him hanging.

“There have been a few cases we almost took to ourselves, for example, Walter’s family and the Klein Brothers, to take care of, but many times you’ve come through,” Mycroft says.

“Right,” Greg grins. “So it’s, in fact, incredible that I can actually do my job?” He means it as a joke, but once again, his joking goes way past Mycroft, and he answers with serious words.

“No, it’s incredible because other people couldn’t have done the same.”

“Alright,” Greg says. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft says. For a moment they stay silent, eating their food. Who would have thought that Greg would find himself having lunch in Mycroft’s home, getting compliments from him, when a few months ago solely the thought of having not-Sherlock or strictly work-related conversation with Mycroft would have sounded absurd to him. Greg feels sort of privileged, he doesn’t believe a lot of people in Mycroft’s life are in the same kind of position as Greg is. Friends, or whatever. It’s not like Mycroft didn’t still give him a headache every now and then, but it’s not as usual as it has been before. It’s _nice_.

“Anyway,” Greg starts, he doesn’t think he can keep his mouth shut about this any longer. “Remember the hunch I had?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says with a tone that has _obviously_ in it, but Greg appreciates he doesn’t say it out loud.

“Well, that was a very bad hunch,” Greg admits. It stings only a little.

“Oh?” Mycroft says, and now Greg knows he’s only humouring him. It’s fine, Greg doesn’t really mind it. It makes it easier for him to ask this.

“Yeah. So, I was wondering if you or Anthea or whoever does this kind of stuff, could look up these couple of cases I have,” Greg says. He shoves the binders over the table towards Mycroft. He knows Mycroft hasn’t left them unnoticed, and Greg assumes him asking for help isn’t a surprise for Mycroft.

“I presume this is about Mark White and the Owens,” Mycroft says, not even pretending he doesn’t know. He takes the binders but doesn’t open either one of them.

“Yes,” Greg says. “It’s driving me crazy. I’m pretty sure they’re connected, there are too many things that match up, the gun is most likely the same one and there are years and years records missing. Mark White was threatened before he was killed, and we’ve got a lot of tiny bits of personality and stuff from the letters, but that doesn’t really help with anything since it’s nothing solid. The Owens were killed by a white man, six feet or so tall, but that isn’t much either.”

“Don’t you have a lot, if you think the murders are connected?” Mycroft points out. Greg sighs.

“Yeah, but searching for sixty-or-so years old white men that are six feet tall and introverted isn’t actually very helpful,” he says. Mycroft smiles shortly as an agreement, then he opens the binder on top. It’s the Mark White one, and the speed Mycroft’s eyes are moving makes Greg doubt he even reads the text. When he’s done with Mark White, he takes the second binder and reads the papers in it. The whole process takes less than five minutes. Mycroft turns to look back at Greg.

“What’s your theory?” he asks.

Greg blinks surprised. “Er, well, I think Mark White and Nina Owen used to be spooks.” That makes Mycroft raise his eyebrows. “I can’t think of any other reason for all the records being missing and it’s not like it’s news that the police doesn’t know the Secret Service’s business,” Greg explains his trail of thoughts.

“And?” Mycroft encourages him to continue.

“Mark White’s killer was someone who knew him, or used to know him, he referenced at his history in those threats he sent to him. And I’m pretty sure that Nina and Jessica’s killer was also someone Nina knew because in the security tape it doesn’t seem like the killer had to force himself into the house, more like the door was opened to him,” Greg says.

Mycroft folds his hands on the table. “What can I do?”

Greg is surprised by Mycroft’s straightforward question. “Well, when Anthea came around about the John Smith case, she used some kind of database to look up the aliases. It’s almost one hundred percent sure that Mark White has had an alias between 1996 and his death, but he has stopped using it. Our records were of no help.”

“You want me to check that out?” Mycroft asks.

“Well, yeah,” Greg says, then explains himself. “If it’s something I can’t know, then I don’t _need_ to know, but I think it could help with finding the killer,” he says.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything.

“ _And_ ,” Greg continues, putting a lot of emphasis on the words, “if I’m right, someone is killing people with similar pasts.”

“Wouldn’t you think that if you’re right, _we’_ d know about it?” Mycroft asks. 

“Well, did you ever find out what happened to Braddock?” Greg asks back. It’s a shitty thing to say, he knows that, but Mycroft sour face tells all Greg needs. “Yeah, so maybe not,” he says.

Mycroft unfolds his hands and takes another look at the binders. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Naturally,” Greg says. He sees Mycroft smiling a little, even his head low as he reads.

  
  


Before Greg leaves Mycroft’s place, they talk a bit about nothing in particular and a bit about world events Greg hasn’t been keeping up with, but Mycroft obviously has. Mycroft doesn’t speak about the news like a normal person does, there is nothing heedless about the way he discusses them. Mycroft doesn’t just _talk_ about them, he _knows_ about them, and it makes Greg think that most things that happen around the world, Mycroft is there to experience it. Probably not in person, Greg has understood Mycroft doesn’t do that, but he’s pretty sure Mycroft is the person who deals with things like plane crashes and shootings, even if the Prime Minister or whoever is the person who speaks out about them. Greg is pretty sure Mycroft probably ghostwrites the PM’s tweets, and that makes him a little proud of him. Whatever Mycroft really does for a living, it surely is _big_ and important.

Greg leaves the binders to Mycroft, even though Mycroft would probably deal without them, he has probably memorised all the text already by reading it once or twice, but a big part of leaving the binders behind is to make sure Greg won’t keep on obsessing over them in his free time. He thinks it might be a good thing for him to let the cases be for a moment.

  
  


*

  
  


Greg doesn’t hear back from Mycroft for the next week. Greg waits for a call from him for the first three or so days, but on the weekend he has given up about it. It’s easier for him to not to think about Mark White or the Owens now that the binders aren’t a constant reminder on his desk, but every time there is a break from other cases and other work he has to do, he finds himself thinking about the cases, wanting to read about them or text Mycroft if he has come across anything useful. It feels like a bad addiction, but when he gets through the worst withdrawal, it gets easier to forget and let it go and not glance at the now empty place on his desk.

It’s Monday, and Greg has been doing paperwork for a case they closed on the weekend. A woman was found dead in the trunk of a rental car. The body was not a pretty sight as she had been bend into a very weird position. The killer was a man in his early twenties, and the woman was his soon to be mother-in-law. It was not a very hard investigation, as the car was rented by the man himself, and once they made the connection and went to question the man, he confessed. He thought had solid reasoning to back up what he had done; his fiancée had had a very bad relationship with her mother, as she used to abuse her daughter both emotionally and physically. Greg couldn’t say he didn’t think that was bad, but killing her seemed a bit much for him, especially as the killer hasn’t done anything criminal before, there isn’t even some nicking under his belt. But occasionally Greg gets a case like this, where someone is trying to protect someone else, but the ways of protection go way overboard.

Once Greg is done with the paperwork, he decides he has earned himself a five-minute smoke break. He gets up and leaves his office to go downstairs. On his way down, he almost crashes with an officer whose name h can’t remember, and when he sees what she’s holding, he doesn’t even really care about her name.

“What is that?” Greg asks, pointing at the clear evidence bag she’s carrying.

“Just something we found from a break-in,” she says, her name is something like Suzanne or Suzie.

“Can I?” Greg asks, holding his hand out. Suzanne or Suzie raises her eyebrows but hands the bag over. Greg takes it and turns it carefully on his hands. It’s a broken bust made of clay or something similar like that, and even though it’s in a few pieces, Greg can recognise the person it has once been.

“Is this Margaret Thatcher?” he asks, for good measure.

Suzanne or Suzie nods. “I think so. Why?”

“I don’t know yet,” he answers truthfully. “You said it was a break-in. Was there anything taken?”

“No,” Suzanne-Suzie frowns. “Nothing was taken, but the bust was broken. It’s actually a bit strange, Harry said they had a similar break-in just last week, nothing else was taken but a statue or something, but they found it smashed in the yard.”

“Was it also of Thatcher?” Greg asks.

“I think so,” Suzanne-Suzie says. “I can ask, or I think you can, I think Harry’s still around for today.”

“Can you send the files to me?” Greg asks, still holding the bust. “I’d like to get on this case.”

Suzanne-Suzie grins. “Isn’t this a bit too mundane for you serious crime people?”

Greg pffts, but doesn’t say anything else. It _is_ something he wouldn’t usually do, but that’s not it. It seems like Sherlock has been right with his apprehension, and if Greg is right, he thinks he has found a pattern. It’s a nice change after the big cases getting colder and colder with no strings to really tie them up to each other.

Half an hour later Greg has everything about the two break-ins, and another broken bust of Margaret Thatcher was found from Mr Molandes Hassan’s place, but nothing else was taken. Greg makes a couple of calls to get the cases to himself, which is surprisingly easy, even though this kind of crimes aren’t his usual thing. Apparently, no one else is interested in them, and not even the identical basted busts of Margaret Thatcher are enough motivation for other officers to get invested in the cases. Which makes it easier for Greg to get them to Sherlock.

Greg takes his coat and the evidence bag that has the broken bust in it, puts the bag into a paper bag, so that it’s not on plain sight for everyone to see, and gets going. He tells Andrew where he’s going, but doesn’t give him any time for when he would be back; if everything goes well, it should take some time.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Greg drives to Baker Street, lets himself in as the door is open, and takes the stairs two at the time. On the top of the stairs, out of all the people, is DI Stella Hopkins.

“Oh, hi, Stella,” Greg greets her, surprised to see her there. She’s holding a thick binder, and as the door to the living room is closed, she seems to be waiting there.

“Greg,” she smiles quickly at him.

“You, erm,” Greg stutters with his words, it’s very rare he sees anyone else than Sherlock, the Watsons or Mrs Hudson in there.

“Yeah, he’s just got a client, so...” she says, nodding at the closed door, awkwardly changing her weight from foot to foot.

“Right, right, right,” Greg mutters, mostly to himself. He feels awkward standing there, seeing Stella in the wrong environment makes him lost his footing a bit. “Er, you see a lot of each other, do you?” he asks, wondering. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard of Stella being in touch with Sherlock before.

“It’s nothing,” she says, then hurries to add: “I mean, it’s nothing serious.”

“No, no,” Greg says, frowning, thinking what on Earth does she means by serious.

“I just pop around every now and again for a chat,” Stella says.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I mean, he loves a really tricky case,” she grins.

“Yeah, he does,” Greg laughs. “So what you’re here for?”

“Well, Interpol think the Borgia Pearl trail leads back to London, so...” Stella says, trailing off.

“Borgia Pearl, are they still after that, are they?” Greg asks, it has been a couple of months since he has seen Stella outside the Scotland Yard, and she had mentioned the Pearl back then.

“Yeah,” she says. “So how did you two first meet?” she asks quickly, everything from her hurried words to her body language expose how out of place she must feel. Greg wonders if she feels embarrassed to be there asking for Sherlock’s help, or is it because she, as well as Greg, hasn’t expected to see any other officers in Baker Street.

“Oh, it was a case about, uh, ten years ago, nobody could figure it out,” Greg starts, it has been a long time since anyone has asked for that. “There was an old lady found dead in a sauna.”

“Oh yeah? How did she die?” Stella asks.

“Hypothermia.”

“What?”

“I know,” Greg says. “But then I met Sherlock, and it was _so_ simple the way—” he starts, but the opening door interrupts him.

“Would you _please_ keep it down?” Sherlock snarls then slams the door back shut.

“Sorry,” Greg and Stella mutter. For a moment, they stay quiet, until the silence gets too heavy between them.

“So, uh, the woman,” Greg starts again, quieter. Stella turns back to look at him. “Sherlock came around and turned out the woman was bought from Siberia or Lapland, some human trafficking accident. I mean, no one in my team could have ever made that out, so after that Sherlock started to work with us.”

“Right,” Stella says, nodding. “Oh, and, I heard about your share in the Murray-Mendoza case. Good work.”

“Uh,” Greg says cringing. “That was actually Sherlock too.”

“Oh,” Stella says. “Alright.”

There is another silent, the only noise is Sherlock’s muffled speaking coming from the living room.

“Anyway,” Stella begins, looking at her watch, as they wait for Sherlock to finish up with his client. “Do you have any lunch plans?”

“Sorry?” Greg blurts out, he has heard but he must have wrongly between the lines.

“Lunch,” Stella says, slowly as if she was talking to a child. Which is only ridiculous, because Greg is probably fifteen years older than she is. “Do you have any plans?”

“No, I don’t,” Greg answers.

”I was thinking about checking out this one place just a few blocks away, and if you don’t have plans, maybe you’d want to go with me,” Stella says, she’s talking fast.

“Sure,” Greg answers because lunch doesn’t sound too bad.

“Good,” Stella sighs. “It’s a date.”

“Is it?” Greg asks before he can think better of it. Stella just smiles and sifts the binder under her left arm to get her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Give me your number and we’ll see after we’re done here, alright?” Stella says.

Greg is too abashed to do anything else than list his phone number to her, and before he can think of anything to say, Sherlock’s client comes out of the living room, and after that Greg doesn’t have any time to say anything.

Greg explains the two busted busts, one from a break-in at Mr Hassan and one from Dr Barnicot. He can feel his phone vibrating in his coat pocket, but he tries to ignore it, but apparently, thanks for Sherlock’s observation and big mouth, he still reveals himself by looking at his watch too many times. Sherlock and John continue the investigation, Sherlock founds blood on the bust pieces and wants to go see some Toby, which leaves Greg to go and see Stella.

Which he does. He has a couple of messages from her, one of them has an address in it, and another one in which she has used an emoji that has a meaning Greg can’t decode.

  
  


  
  


After fifteen minutes Greg is sitting in a restaurant with Stella. It has been a long time since Greg has been on a date. After his divorce, he _thought_ about getting back on dating, but he got very frustrated very quickly. It seems like all of the dating nowadays is happening on the internet, and maybe he's old fashioned or just simply old, but internet dating seems forced to him. Actively looking for someone to date, to have mindless sex with or whatever the purpose was, just wasn't for him. So really, after his divorce, he hasn't been dating, and he was married for a long time, so now, sitting there with Stella feels weird and unfamiliar to him.

“So,” Greg says, fidgeting his fingers, he's trying very hard to find something to say, but seriously, what do they have in common besides work? It probably is the sole purpose of a date to find out, but it has been so long.

“So,” Stella says back. She looks more relaxed than Greg feels, and a lot less awkward than in the hallway of 221B Baker Street. “I guess you haven't done this a lot.”

Greg tries to grin. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you know,” Stella says, shrugging, “for someone who solves crimes for a living, yes. How flattered should I be for you to be here?”

“What do you mean”

Stella smiles. “Well, obviously I'm not the only one who has asked you out?”

Greg blinks stupidly a couple of time. “Uh, actually you are.” Greg realises his tone makes it sound like a question. As far as he knows, Stella really is the only one.

Stella raises both of her eyebrows suspiciously.

“What?” Greg asks, a bit frustrated with what she’s implying.

“Well, you know, people talk,” Stella says, but doesn’t clarify further. Greg sighs.

“Of course, they do,” he mutters. Stella only grins at him and turns back to her menu.

“I’ve heard their shrimp bisque is very good,” Stella says, as if she didn’t just say that people have been gossiping about Greg’s dating life and apparently made-up stuff.

  
  


As far as dates go, Greg can’t really say if this one is a good or a bad one. Stella is _nice_ , but not that nice that dating would have even crossed Greg’s mind if she hadn’t asked him. They can talk about stuff, actually talking about anything else than work is easier than he would have thought. Stella watches some football, mostly because her cousin is playing in the EFL. They have some things in common besides the work, she has some relatives living in Yorkshire, and she also has a couple of brothers and so many nieces and nephew’s that when she starts to list their names and ages, Greg can’t follow her after the first three names. She’s _nice._ It’s _nice_ , but Greg is pretty sure both of them know it’s nothing special. Which is fine, it’s not like every date ends with marriage and divorce, even if Greg’s last first date did.

They are already leaving the restaurant and getting back to work when Greg’s phone starts to ring. For a moment he tries to ignore it, he knows how tactless it is to take a phone call on a _date_ , but Stella doesn’t seem bothered by it. And when Greg sees the name _M. Holmes_ (which he still hasn’t changed), he answers the call.

“ _How’s the date?_ ” Mycroft asks after Greg’s hello.

“How the fuck—” Greg starts but cuts his question in short. “Never mind. What is it?”

“ _I did what you asked,_ ” is all Mycroft gets to say before Greg is standing up and saying: “Wait a bit,” to the phone and: “I’m sorry, it’s work,” to Stella. Stella only nods, and as the bill is taken care of already, Greg puts his coat back on and leaves the restaurant.

“Sorry, you were saying?” he says when he’s on the street.

“ _I think it’s better you come to see me_ ,” Mycroft says.

“It’s about the cases, right?” Greg asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Good or bad?” Greg asks, it seems to be the only thing he can get out of his mouth, although there are more important things to ask.

“ _It depends on the definition of good or bad_ ,” Mycroft answers. “ _But I have a feeling you were right._.”

“About what?”

“ _Many things_ ,” Mycroft says, not giving Greg much. “ _But let’s not talk about that on the phone_.”

Greg almost jokes about their phone calls being listened but realises that it might actually be true.

“When can you see me?” Greg asks, he turns to go to his car, cursing the fact that he has used his lunch hour already and has to go back to work and not go see Mycroft and talk about the cases. Because finally there is something to talk about, Greg has been waiting for this for a long time.

“ _I’m afraid I don’t have time until tomorrow,_ ” Mycroft says. “ _Is tomorrow evening, say at seven, a good time?_ ”

“Yes,” Greg says right away, though he has no idea if it’s actually a good time or not. He could make it a good time.

“ _Good_ ,” Mycroft says.“ _See you then_.” Mycroft ends the call before Greg can say anything.

“Fucking _yes_ ,” Greg mutters to himself as he pockets his phone and takes out the car keys to go back to the station. Once he’s back at his office, he remembers he has forgotten to smoke the cigarette he had been craving for.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think or find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/katastrofeja), i talk about papoe and my probably pregnant cat there so feel free to say hi


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya. so, apparently this month has turned out to be a LOT and my thoughts on updating every two weeks went down the drain. :') I'm starting a new job/internship, school starts officially next week, this one vice-chairmanship I've had is dropping the "vice" in a couple of weeks, and just overall a LOT. and writing this chapter turned out to be very hard? I'm not a fan of repeating canon lines in a fic, but I had to do it (again) to keep the text understandable. I had to cut this a bit shorter than usual, bc otherwise, it would have taken me another week of twisting and turning to get this out. but hey! we're entering the _crime solving power couple_ phase of this fic. and the _there are too many names to keep up_ phase, but that's what you get when you deal with the S-word.  
> (also just a heads up, if you don't know what water does to a dead body, do not google it.)

The next morning Greg gets to the Scotland Yard, and before he gets to sit down in his office chair, they get a call for a dead body. A woman has been killed on her front yard, someone has slashed her throat out, and the neighbours have found her already dead. Greg goes back to his car and a half an hour later he arrives at the crime scene. There is a woman lying face down on the front lawn, she has a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms on, and her slippers have fallen off next to her. It looks like she has been trying to get away, but the killer has gotten to her.

“Her name is Orrie Harker, 36 years old. She’s been fighting back, there are some marks on her face and hands, but she’s been killed with a blade. Someone has cut her throat out. By the look of the house it seems like a burglary gone wrong,” says Andrew, he has been talking with the first officers to arrive there. Greg’s not used to having Andrew accompany him, but Sally’s having a day off, and Andrew has been the first free one to have. Andrew is eager and professional, but inexperienced.

“Looks like?” Greg asks.

“Apparently the door has been forced open, and some stuff was broken inside the house,” Andrew says. “Dunno if anything was taken, everything obvious seems to be there, like her television and laptop and stuff like that. Her wallet was on the kitchen table,” he continues and shows a clear evidence bag that only has Orrie Harker’s driver’s licence in it.

They go inside from the open front door. The door window is broken and the doormat is full of shattered glass. It crunches under their shoes. The house has white surfaces everywhere, and black and white pictures of various cities on the walls. The hallway looks like there has been a struggle and when they go into the living room the sight in front of them does look like a burglary gone wrong. One picture frame had fallen from the wall, and the picture of a waterfall looks weird underneath the broken glass. It says _Parc de la Colline du Château_ in the down right side of the picture, but Greg would have recognised the place anyway; he’s been there with his ex-wife years ago. On the floor, there are pieces of white clay and just by looking at it, Greg can guess what kind of a statue the pieces have been. Andrew walks closer and crouches down to see better.

“Does that look like Margaret Thatcher to you?” Andrew asks, squinting at the broken pieces. Greg mimics Andrew to see better, and yeah, it’s a Thatcher bust. Looking closer it comes clear there are two of them.

“Well, this case just got a lot more interesting,” Greg says, and as Andrew looks at him with a confused expression, Greg gives him a brief run-through of the Thatcher’s and someone breaking the identical busts. Andrew doesn’t look at all less confused after Greg has explained it, but Greg doesn’t blame him. It’s starting to get a bit too weird for him, too.

“I’m going to make a call,” Greg says, nodding towards the front door. Andrew hums as a sign he has heard Greg. Greg goes outside and calls Sherlock, who answers almost immediately.

“ _Lestrade, another one?_ ” Sherlock asks without a hello.

“Yeah.”

“ _Harker or Sandeford?_ ” Sherlock asks.

Greg really isn’t sure if he wants to know how Sherlock knows. “Harker,” Greg answers. “And it’s murder this time.”

“ _Mmm_ ,” Sherlock hums. “ _That perks things up a bit._ ”

Greg sighs. “No need to sound so happy about it. Will you come?”

“ _On my way. Text the address_ ,” Sherlock orders and ends the call. Greg types in the address, sends it and walks up to the uniformed officers watching the street and the path from the street to the yard. He tells the officers to holler when Sherlock arrives.

“Sherlock Holmes?” other one of the officers asks.

“Yes,” Greg says, he almost continues with a sarcastic remark of how many other blokes named Sherlock tend to wander into crime scenes, but the almost childish awe on the young officer’s face makes Greg bite back his words.

“Never seen him before,” the officer says, he sounds excited.

“Well, you will now,” Greg says. He goes back inside the house, Andrew is still there alongside with the forensic team. They are taking pictures and fingerprints, someone is checking on the security camera.

“Who did you call?” Andrew asks, he’s quite clearly trying to sound like he’s not that interested.

“Sherlock Holmes is investigating the Thatchers,” Greg tells him.

“Right,” Andrew says. “Cool.”

Greg ignores Andrew and focuses on the crime scene. After twenty minutes of gathering evidence and getting facts straight, the officer, who is a fan of Sherlock’s, comes to tell him Sherlock has arrived. Greg goes out to let Sherlock come through since no one else apparently hasn’t done it.

Sherlock doesn’t linger at the crime scene for long. Actually, he comes and goes, leaving Greg penniless. Sherlock knows something, but yet again he doesn’t explain anything, he just drops a name, Jack Sandeford, and _leaves_. It’s _frustrating_ , although it’s nothing new. It’s just the way Sherlock is, but nevertheless, it makes Greg feel stupid. He takes a deep breath, he can’t just leave the scene and go after Sherlock demanding to know everything Sherlock knows, even if he wants to.

It takes a few hours for Greg to finally get hold of Sherlock again. He has sent Sherlock a dozen text messages asking what he’s planning, and reminding Sherlock that he’s not supposed to fly solo on cases they’re working together. Thatcher’s might be Sherlock’s case, but Orrie Harker’s murder is Greg’s case, and they are now tangled together. Greg has found a Jack Sandeford who is living in Reading, but he hasn’t done anything with the knowledge yet. Sherlock has texted Greg to come to Baker Street, so there he goes. He has been expecting John and Mary, but it’s only Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson is dusting in the living room, and Sherlock is pacing around the room when Greg knocks on the door frame. Greg greets Mrs Hudson as she goes past him at the doorway, but Greg doesn’t have any pleasantries for Sherlock.

“So,” he says. “Talk.”

Sherlock stops walking in circles and turns on his heels to look at Greg. “Whoever is breaking the busts is obviously in a hurry. They must know the police are after them already and it’s quite clear they’re capable of murder which makes them dangerous.”

“I know all that,” Greg says. “What are you planning? To go and wait for them to get to the next bust?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, the _obviously_ is silent but clear in his tone of voice.

“Jesus,” Greg grunts, “that’s stupid.”

“Well, I assume you don’t have any better ideas.”

Greg sighs. “I don’t.”

“So fine. I’ll go wait for them, I’m pretty sure they’ll come tonight, now that they know the Sandeford one is the one they’ve been looking for,” Sherlock says.

“Could you for once in your life let us do the dangerous part?” Greg asks. It’s almost rhetorical, he knows Sherlock would never do that. He is too stubborn to let someone else do it.

“No,” Sherlock says. “You can come after I’ve solved it.”

“Right,” Greg says. “So after you’ve been killed you’ll let us handle it.”

“No one’s going to _die_ ,” Sherlock snorts.

“If you say so,” Greg mutters. He’s going to have a headache even before the whole stakeout has begun. He needs to get a team of officers who won’t ask too many questions, and somehow he needs to persuade the Chief Superintendent to agree with this plan. Fuck, Greg curses in his mind, it’s going to be a long day.

Sherlock and Greg make plans for a timetable. Sherlock is sure the Thatcher breaking killer will arrive at Sandeford’s at night, as they have done every time so far. Sherlock doesn’t believe they would break the habit even now. When that’s done, Greg gets back to the station and starts making phone calls. One of them is to Mycroft since it has started to look like he won’t be able to see him after all. It annoys him. He has been waiting for answers for Mark White’s and the Owens’s cases, and now this one has gone in between. Mycroft doesn’t answer his call, which annoys Greg a bit more. He doesn’t want to text him, it would seem like he didn’t care as much as he does. He cares, he really does. He’ll try to call Mycroft again later.

By some miracle, Greg is able to get the CS to allow him to go through with Sherlock’s plan. Though, Greg might have left Sherlock out of the plan and instead he presented the idea as a simple stakeout. Dealing with Sherlock has its pros and cons. Most things Sherlock knows or deduces are things the police can’t use as evidence by themselves. As the police, they need something solid to back up the assumptions Sherlock has made by just looking at people or found out by some illegal-ish actions. It seems that Sherlock has a lot of people ready to do him favours. But Greg has found the solid proof himself using the pieces Sherlock has given him; six identical but unique busts, Tbilisi, Jack Sandeford. It has probably taken Greg a whole lot longer time to find out about the statues and their origin than whoever Sherlock has used, but nevertheless, Greg has found the information needed to make the CS believe it’s _Greg’s_ idea to go hang out outside Jack Sandeford’s house for God knows how long. It stings only a little, but Greg has done this before, and nowadays he also tells about Sherlock’s participation after the whole thing is over and they have a suspect and waterproof evidence. 

The whole process has taken many hours, and Greg hasn’t taken as much as a coffee break since noon. He has a couple of hours before they need to go. Jack Sandeford knows what’s happening, and there are already a few officers making sure Sandeford and his daughter are safe. Greg decides he needs a little break. He needs to eat something else than a sandwich at the station, and since he has almost two hours, he goes home. The time is half past six when he opens his front door and steps inside his dark apartment. He doesn’t even take his coat off as he puts leftover pasta into the microwave. He turns on the TV just to have something else to think about, but he only half-listens to the talk show repeat. The microwave lets out a _bling_ as the time runs out, Greg takes the steaming plate out and without bothering to take a seat, he leans on the kitchen counter holding the plate on his other hand and scoops too hot pasta into his mouth with the other. In the television screen, a group of people are sitting in a yellow couch as the host asks questions and a live audience is laughing every ten seconds. Greg can’t recognise the people being interviewed apart from Culverton Smith, but Smith is everywhere so that’s not a surprise. Smith tells about some charity work he’s done, and the audience whistles and claps to that. Greg scoffs, moves to change the channel when his phone starts to ring. It’s Mycroft calling him back, Greg puts the plate down and takes the call.

“Hi.”

“ _You tried to call me earlier_ ,” Mycroft says. There aren’t any noteworthy tones in his voice that could tell Greg if Mycroft already knows why he has tried to call him.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight. We’re neck-deep in this case and Sherlock—”

“ _What has my brother done this time?_ ” Mycroft asks tightly. Greg almost laughs.

“Nothing,” he says, putting emphasis on the word to let Mycroft know he means it. “I mean nothing else than probably solving a case for us, again. He has a plan, and as stupid and reckless it sounds, it’s the best chance we’ve got, so.”

“ _Stupid and reckless_ ,” Mycroft repeats. On the television, Culverton Smith puts his arm around a red-headed young woman. The flinch she gives is almost unnoticeable but it’s there.

“Isn’t using a bait always a bit?” Greg asks. He can hear Mycroft clicking his tongue, so that might mean he agrees.

“Although the bait is not a person per se,” Greg says, “so no need to worry.”

“ _I’m not worried_ ,” Mycroft says way too quickly and way too harshly for Greg to believe him.

“Sure,” he says, and grins as Mycroft clears his throat with annoyance pouring over the little noise. “How’s your tomorrow looking?” Greg asks.

“ _Busy_ ,” Mycroft answers.

“Too busy?”

There is a silence for a moment.

“ _I could probably make time_ ,” Mycroft says then.

“Brilliant,” Greg says. “Text me. I think we’ll be done with this case tonight, and I’m going to do a twelve plus hour day today, so I guess I should be able to have time tomorrow.”

“ _Very well, I’ll text you once I find a spot for you,_ ” Mycroft says, then after a pause, he continues: “ _Good luck tonight_.”

“Thanks,” Greg says. He doesn’t add anything to it—he’s not worried about the upcoming hours. He knows how to do his job, and he trusts Sherlock to do his part. Sherlock might be reckless at times, but he doesn’t have a death wish. Neither do Greg.

“ _See you tomorrow._ ”

“See you,” Greg says, then ends the call. Commercials are running on the telly, Greg turns it off. He eats the rest of his food, pockets his phone, and after he’s done, he puts the dirty dishes into the sink and leaves.

*

It’s a long evening and even longer night. For hours nothing happens, but then a lot of things happens, and the outcome is that the man gets away. It’s late, closing on midnight when Greg gets a call from one of the constables that have been looking for the man. The PC tells Greg they’ve got nothing, and Greg thanks her and swallows down all the curse words he wants to let out. He’s already on his way to Baker Street. He has been going to tell Sherlock they haven’t found anything _yet_ , but the constable's phone call has dropped the _yet_ out.

Greg takes the stairs two at the time. Sherlock is waiting in the living room, 

“Well?” Sherlock asks, snapping his head towards Greg. Greg shakes his head.

“He could’ve gone far,” Greg says, to assure himself more than Sherlock. “We’ll have him in a bit.”

“I very much doubt it,” Sherlock says seriously, taking out his phone and typing something.

“Why?”

“Because I think he used to work with Mary,” Sherlock answers, walking past Greg towards the stairs. Greg follows him before he gets away.

“So, what?”Greg asks. Sherlock is stashing away his phone, he stops at the bottom of the stairs only to put on his coat. “What should we do?”

“Nothing you can do,” Sherlock says. “Go home. Get your officers off his tail, you won’t find him.”

“Where are you going then?” Greg asks.

“I need to do something,” Sherlock says and with that, he’s off. Sherlock closes the door behind him, leaving Greg alone in the hallway. He sighs, then yawns.

“Oh, it was you,” Mrs Hudson’s voice says. Greg turns to see her, she’s standing there with a nightgown on.

“Sorry if we woke you up,” Greg apologises. Mrs Hudson waves her hand dismissively.

“It’s alright,” she says. “Did you find him?”

“Nah, we didn’t,” Greg says, the frustration and bitterness creeping up to him. “Guess he got away.”

Mrs Hudson frowns. “That’s a pity.”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “I think I’ll get home to get some sleep. Good night,” he says, taking a few steps towards the door.

“Good night.”

Greg steps out into the dark chilly London night. He can almost feel the adrenaline rushing through him still. Sleep won’t be easily reached that night.

*

There is one good thing about paperwork: it rarely runs away. After the stakeout and the man getting away, there is a lot of paperwork. _A lot_. The long hours waiting in the car last night seem pretty easy and fast compared to the piling files on his desk. Sherlock’s involvement didn’t stay secret for long, so now Greg needs to sort it out on paper. But he gets through it, if not for any other reason than the text message Mycroft has sent him at two in the morning asking if five thirty works for Greg. It does, he has made sure of it. Well, as much as he can, since he can’t really stop crimes from happening.

Greg hasn’t heard anything from Sherlock, not even an answer for a text Greg has sent to him earlier. It irritates him, Sherlock doesn’t usually make him wait like this. Greg has been expecting an answer ten minutes after he sent the text, especially after the night they had, but it has been hours.

As the end of his shift gets nearer, Greg gets more and more impatient. He considers leaving work earlier but buries that thought rather quickly as he looks at the undone paperwork. He sits behind his desk until he’s done with all the forms and documents his bosses require from him, and after all that is done, he realises he’s already been forty-five minutes overtime. The clock on his office wall tells it’s already ten past five. It’s a good thing no urgent crime has emerged because he only has time for a quick cigarette before his meeting with Mycroft.

Greg arrives at Whitehall five minutes early. He doesn’t see Anthea around, but someone else lets Greg in and Greg navigates himself down to the right corridor and behind Mycroft’s office door. The door is ajar, but Greg knocks on it for good measures. He hears Mycroft’s _yes_ and goes inside. The office hasn’t changed for one bit. Not that Greg has though it would have, but after seeing Mycroft’s house and the other offices he uses, the bunker just seems slightly odd. But Greg has to admit that considering the nature of the meeting, the bunker seems the most convenient place.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft says, he’s sitting behind his table.

“Afternoon,” Greg says, taking the chair opposite of Mycroft. He wonders how long it would take them to get through whatever Mycroft is going to tell him—there is a notable chance for Mycroft not telling a thing of what he has found out and Greg is there only to hear that. Greg decides it’s best for not to jinx it, and takes off his coat. He hangs it on the back of the chair.

“I believe you know that this information is to stay in this room,” Mycroft says, his voice is serious and tight, which makes Greg sit a bit straighter in his chair.

“Yes,” he answers, adding: “Obviously.”

“It looks like your _hunch_ was, in fact, right,” Mycroft starts. Greg wants to joke about how Mycroft makes it sound like it’s a great surprise, but Mycroft’s serious tone and body language prevents him. Instead, Greg gestures Mycroft to continue. Mycroft leans back on his chair and opens up a drawer. He takes out three binders. They look official and important with the MI6 logo on the front. It makes Greg a bit anxious in all the possible meaning of the word.

“Mark Edward White,” Mycroft says, opens the first binder and slides it across the table for Greg to see. “Born 18th of September 1954 in Leicester. The MI6 hired him in 1978 at the eve of the Soviet–Afghan War and he was placed in Afghanistan for four different occasions between the years 1979 and 1984. After the Cold War, he continued working in intelligent services and he was, for example, involved in three separated counter-terrorism operations. In 1996 he and two other agents were ambushed by a double agent, which lead to White’s faking his death and the other two dying. The accident on M4 the 16th of October 1996 did happen and Mark White was involved in it, but as we already know, he survived it. After that, he went by the name of Jack O’Hara and was still working for MI6 until 2009. The records end there, the last records say he was living in Watford.”

Greg looks at the picture of a 35 years old Mark White. He used to be a good looking bloke with a strong jaw and in the picture he’s looking past the camera, smirking a bit. The picture seems intimate and personal, it doesn’t look like a picture that should be attached in his personnel file as a Secret Intelligence Service officer.

“I think he met his partner in 2009 or 2010 and stopped using the alias,” Greg says, the papers in the binders. There is a lot of paper and a lot of text printed out in tiny font, Greg needs to squint to read.

“Which, to be fair, was very reckless of him, and played a great part on his murder,” Mycroft says coldly. He opens up the second binder and gives it to Greg. “Nina Elizabeth Owen, née Hunter. Born on the 5th of June 1980 in Kidsgrove. She was hired in 1998 because of her remarkable IT skills, yet she worked as a field agent for eleven years between 2000 and 2011.”

Nina Owen’s files are fewer in the paper count and a lot of paragraphs have been struck through with black and stamped CLASSIFIED in bold letters.

“Well, that’s helpful,” Greg says dryly. There isn’t even a picture of her everywhere in the binder.

“As you see, a lot of her work is classified information, but that’s not all. A lot of it is also non-existing,” Mycroft says. Greg frowns.

“Meaning?”

Mycroft takes a moment before he answers. “Some information is so delicate or dangerous in nature that the preclusions to keep it from leaking may mean that the paper trail gets destroyed.”

“Right,” Greg says, he has heard of that before, but he wouldn’t have guessed he would stumble upon a person who’s done something so secretive the facts have been wiped out of existence. Apart from Mycroft. “This says Nina has been working undercover until the day she died,” Greg says, pointing at the line on the paper.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “You’re wondering why Nina and her wife’s case wasn’t transferred to us.”

“Yeah,” Greg admits. “Seems a bit odd to me.”

“There is a simple answer to that,” Mycroft says. “Since she was doing an undercover job, only a few very specific people knew about, the investigations were given to the police to protect the operation she was in.”

“Because if you lot took it, it could have exposed her true employee,” Greg says.

“Precisely.”

“What’s that?” Greg asks, pointing at the last binder on Mycroft’s side of the desk. Mycroft takes the binder, opens it for Greg and slides it over. The man looking back at Greg from the picture isn’t anyone Greg has seen before.

“Charlie Jones, codename Firefox, also known as Mitchell,” Mycroft says.

“Like the Clint Eastwood movie?” Greg asks.

“Like the Graig Thomas novel,” Mycroft corrects. “Born 27th of December 1956 in Austin, Texas. A double agent for the United Kingdom during the last four years of Cold War. In 1991 he defected to the UK and after he got his citizenship he worked, officially, as an agent runner until last year when he retired. Two months after his retirement started, on the first of October last year, he disappeared.”

“Did you find him?” Greg asks, looking at the papers. Charlie Jones’s picture is new, it’s dated two years earlier. He’s bald, but he has a long, greying beard. He looks like a stereotypical motorist, not something he would have expected an operational officer would look like.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, “page four.”

Greg finds the right page. “I see,” he says, looking at a picture of a body. It’s obvious that the body has been in the water for some time.

“He was shot and the body was found in Canvey Island second of November last year,” Mycroft says. “The case never got to the police, it was handled by our people. And at the time the investigations stopped when his ex-spouse, Lotte was her name if I recall right, confessed.”

“But?”

Mycroft puts his elbows on the desk and looks at Greg over his crossed hands. “The case went to court and turns out she has an alibi. She said an anonymous person got in touch with her and promised to pay her three million pounds if she confessed. At first, she thought it was a good deal, but came into her senses.”

“Is there any proof of that?” Greg asks.

“The anonymous person sent her a hand-written letter,” Mycroft says. “You can do your own assumptions but I believe you’ll find what I did.” Mycroft takes Mark White’s file and puts one paper on the desk. It’s a photocopy of one of the letters he was sent before he went missing. Greg is already guessing where it is going, but he finds a similar photocopy from Charlie Jones’s file. He puts the two copies next to each other.

“Bloody hell,” Greg mutters, looking at the matching handwriting on both of the letters. “It’s the same bloke.”

“I believe it is,” Mycroft agrees.

“So that means Jones’s and White’s deaths are connected,” Greg says. “What about Nina Owen? There hasn’t been any letter as far as I know, and she’s a lot younger than White and Jones are.”

“We also know the least about her,” Mycroft points out. “I think Nina Owen and her wife’s murder was an unavoidable mistake.”

“A mistake?”

Mycroft gives him a tight smile. “A mistake every serial killer make at some point.”

“Are you really using the S-word?” Greg half-jokes.

“You were already thinking about it earlier,” Mycroft states.

“Thinking and talking out loud are two very different things,” Greg says. He leans back on his chair, and takes Charlie Jones’s file in his hands, fiddling through pages. Years, names and places fill most of the paragraphs and the actual information is hidden underneath all the numbers and details. “As an agent runner Jones has seen a lot of people, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.

“An _officially_ means he did something else too?” Greg makes sure. Mycroft nods. Greg bites the inside of his cheek. “That’s a lot of people to consider,” he says.

“There is also another thing to consider,” Mycroft says, almost sighs out the words. “Leon Braddock.”

Greg looks up from the file, surprised. “You think he’s connected too?”

“The similarity between Charlie Jones and Leon Braddock is too much to be ignored,” Mycroft says.

“But it did get ignored, didn’t it?” Greg says. “Because Jones’s ex-wife confessed and was locked up at the time.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. He uncrosses his hands and straightens his back, looking at Greg with serious eyes. “I would like you to take the case.”

“Sorry?” Greg snorts.

“I want you to take the case,” Mycroft says firmly.

“Which one?” Greg asks, gesturing around the files on the table.

“All of them.”

“All of them,” Greg repeats, dully.

“You already have Mark White and Nina Owen, and you’ve been interested in Leon Braddock ever since you first got to know about him. And Charlie Jones is the link you need,” Mycroft reasons. “Naturally, it’ll all have to be off the record, so to speak. I can work things out so it’s possible if you don’t mind me _abusing my power._ ” The ragging tone is loud and clear, which only makes the corners of Greg’s mouth twitch.

He clears his throat. “Why me?” he asks, completely serious. “Surely you have people who’d take them.”

“I trust you,” Mycroft says, he doesn’t say, _I don’t trust them_ , but it’s there.

Greg puts the file back on the desk. He considers it for a moment. He wants them, God help him, but he does. Mark White and Nina Owen have been nagging him for weeks, and now he could have the pieces to catch whoever is going around killing former and current MI6 employees. It excites him, and not even the thought of having to work outside his day job make the feeling tranquillise.

“Alright,” Greg says. Mycroft hasn’t asked anything, he must have known Greg would say yes anyway. “I guess I need you, though. I don’t think even you could give me access to the information I’d need.”

Mycroft says nothing for a moment. “I had thought this would be a liaison, yes.” His voice is hesitant, each word comes out slowly.

“Right then,” Greg says. “I want to talk with Charlie Jones’s ex-wife.”

“I can give you her contact,” Mycroft says.

“And I want you to lay down your theories before we do anything else,” Greg adds. “I know you have something.”

“I do,” Mycroft says. “A hunch, if you may.”

“Give me.”

“Considering everything else you’ve been able to gather about the suspect, it’s quite certain he’s someone who has worked for the SIS, GCHQ, MI5 or some other service that has overlapping resources. It is possible he’s still employed, but my assumption is that he hasn’t known about Leon Braddock committing treason. If he would have, he could’ve either make the killing look like it was done by the book or he could’ve left the job for the assigned people,” Mycroft says.

“Are you sure he isn’t any of the assigned people?” Greg asks.

“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “Sherlock was asked to take the case when it came to our knowledge that the kill was done by someone else.”

“Alright,” Greg says. He believes that it has been checked.

“Considering everything you’ve gathered about the killer so far and adding the aspect of his previous occupation, the list of possible suspects gets a bit shorter,” Mycroft says. “You’ve got the basic physical features and some possible personality traits to go by.”

“Am I right to assume you don’t believe in the handwriting analysis?” Greg grins.

“It’s easy to fake your handwriting,” Mycroft says dryly. “It’s not very scientific to assume a person is something just by the way they flick the ends of their G’s.”

“I hear you,” Greg says, “but Sherlock seems to believe it.” He doesn’t mention what Sherlock has said about Mycroft’s handwriting and how it shows things Mycroft tries to hide.

“Sherlock believes in many things that aren’t exactly true,” Mycroft says but doesn’t clarify further. Greg doesn’t ask, it’s not important right now.

“How sure are you that Nina Owen is also connected?” Greg asks. “I can see the connection between Mark White and Charlie Jones, even Braddock, but Nina Owen seems off.”

“I’m fairly sure,” Mycroft says, although his voice doesn’t give in much confidence. “The connection between White and Jones is _obvious_ , but there’s no reason to believe Owen isn’t connected. The gun profile matches, doesn’t it?”

Greg nods.

“I think the killer was going to only kill Nina Owen and get rid of the body the same way he did with White and Jones, but he panicked when Jessica Owen was also home,” Mycroft says. “Jessica Owen had a book club she attended every Thursday, but that particular Thursday it was cancelled. She was home at a time she usually wasn’t. The killer must have thought he’d get Nina Owen alone.”

Greg rubs his hand over his mouth. He has been so focused on Nina that this detail about Jessica’s life has slipped out of his memory. It makes him feel ashamed; these murders have been constantly on his mind for weeks on end, and yet there are still details and subtle features he has missed. How has he ever thought of getting anything solved if he can’t keep up with the particulars?

“As I said,” Mycroft continues, seemingly unbothered by Greg’s trail of thoughts, “Nina and Jessica Owen were a mistake on his part.”

“Is there any chance you’d get a hold of something Nina has done?” Greg asks, trying to shake the uncertainty and demanding thoughts.

“I can try,” Mycroft says, “but I can’t promise I will. If I did, it might be the information is something I couldn’t share with you.”

“How do I know if you're already keeping something from me?” Greg asks, lightly and jokingly, but Mycroft answers with heavy seriousness.

“You don’t,” he says. “But I will tell you if I know something I can’t share, even if the sole knowledge of that information existing would be classified.”

“Fine,” Greg says, “works with me.” He can imagine that must be big for Mycroft. It did take him ten years of knowing each other to tell Greg even a fragment of what he does for a living.

“Can I have these?” Greg asks, pointing at the binders and papers now scattered around the desk.

“For now, yes,” Mycroft says. “But at some point, they need to be destroyed. For your own safety, if not any other reason.”

“Right,” Greg says. Maybe it doesn’t come as a surprise that possessing a few dozen sheets of paper could be dangerous for him, but Greg would have liked not to know that.

“No need to worry,” Mycroft says, apparently seeing right through Greg. “It’s only dangerous if they end up in the wrong hands, and I have no reason to believe you’d let that happen.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, not quite trusting in himself on that regard. He starts to gather the papers back to their own binders and as he does that, he asks: “Apart from this, how’s the world?”

“Fairly quiet,” Mycroft answers, “with the exception of the continually increasing death count over the armed conflicts all over the world, and the ever-growing number of refugees and migrants, or the climate change, or—”

“Got it,” Greg interrupts.

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “You can’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.”

“It’s not that,” Greg lies. It is just that, but probably not for the reason Mycroft thinks. Mycroft studies him for a moment.

“Asking about the world indicates you want to know about the _world_ , which includes places outside the UK. You need to specify your question if that’s not what you want to hear,” Mycroft says.

“I would,” Greg says, “but I think I’d get the same answer if I asked what’s up with you.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but it’s an answer enough.

Greg closes the third binder. “And asking about your life outside work would probably be just sleeping, so that’s no use either.”

“Are you,” Mycroft starts, clears his throat and starts again. “Are you trying to make me ask about your date?”

“What—no,” Greg says, it takes him a ridiculously long time to realise what Mycroft is talking about. When he does, he laughs. “Jesus, no. First of all, there’s nothing to say about that and second, you already know that, with you being you.”

“I do,” Mycroft says shortly.

“What I’m trying to say is that I know about the wars and the refugees and the climate change and all that. I read the news probably more often than you think,” Greg adds, grinning. “You _could_ tell me if you had tea with the Queen and how many of the corgis and dorgis you’ve petted.”

“That is not _the world_ ,” Mycroft says.

“But it is yours, isn’t it?” Greg asks.

“I don’t have tea with the Queen,” Mycroft says slowly. Greg doesn’t believe him; he chooses each word too carefully and blinks his eyes rapidly over the words _don’t_ and _have_. Greg doesn’t mind, if he knows Mycroft is lying, Mycroft knows he knows. And maybe it’s not tea, maybe it’s just conversation or something crazy work-related.

“And how many corgis?” Greg asks.

Mycroft sighs. “Two.”

“Only two?”

Mycroft tuts. “Yes, just two. I’m not a dog person.”

Greg’s phone makes a noise inside Greg’s coat pocket before he can think of anything to say back. He takes his phone out to check if it’s something important. It’s Sherlock finally answering Greg’s _What’s up_ text.

_No sight of Ajay._

_And no need to check him out, you wouldn’t get anything._

Greg scoffs out loud. That is probably two most disappointing text messages he’s received lately.

“Bad news?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” Greg sighs, shutting his phone screen and putting it back to his coat pocket. “It was Sherlock.”

“Well, doesn’t that count as bad news on his own,” Mycroft says, but with a light tone. Greg smiles.

“Not all the time,” Greg says truthfully. “But he just told me all the efforts from yesterday went to shit as the man got away, and yet again it’s no use for me to even try anything.”

Mycroft looks at him for a moment. “I have to agree with Sherlock on that regard.”

“That’s nice,” Greg grunts.

“He’s a professional,” Mycroft says. “And I believe the situation has escalated.”

Greg frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs Watson has left the country. And I assume she’s been in a hurry,” Mycroft says.

“Really? Why?” Greg hasn’t heard anything, and even with everything he has learned about Mary’s past profession, it’s hard for him to imagine her just leaving.

“To protect her family and herself,” Mycroft answers and somehow he makes it sound like it was a bad thing.

“Do you know where she’s gone?” Greg asks. Mycroft gives him a tight-lipped, maybe apologetic smile. 

“I think that’s not for me to say,” he says.

“Alright,” Greg says. One could have thought the most ridiculous part of his life would be about his work not about the people he knows outside of work. Knowing Sherlock apparently makes his life ridiculous. That shouldn’t be a surprise, thinking about everything else he’s seen and done because of Sherlock.

“You seem… worried,” Mycroft says after a moment.

“Probably because I am,” Greg admits. “It’s hard for me to not care.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything to that, and to be frank, Greg isn’t sure what there was to say. They’ve been through this so many times already it shouldn’t be something for Mycroft to point out _again_. It’s not like it’s a surprise. 

“Just so you know,” Greg says, stepping onto thin ice. “It’s alright to be worried every now and then.”

“Meaning?” Mycroft asks, but not as stone-faced as Greg has been expecting.

“Meaning just that,” Greg shrugs. “The whole Ice Man thing is a good cover-up and all, but that’s not really the truth, is it?”

Mycroft scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake. Does Sherlock blabber everything to everyone?”

“No,” Greg says smiling despite himself. “Sherlock blabbers to _John_ , and then two drinks in John blabbers to whoever is the closest.” Greg wants to comment on how Mycroft dodged everything else.

“I loathe gossiping,” Mycroft says with such seriousness in his voice.

“So do I,” Greg says. “But that doesn’t mean I would decline John or Mrs Hudson from tattling.”

Mycroft’s jaw jerks and Greg waits patiently for him to say something.

“I do. Sometimes,” Mycroft says.

“Do what?” Greg asks, even though he knows what Mycroft means.

“Worry.”

“I know,” Greg says softly. “Which is fine.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, then clears his throat. “Do you need anything else?”

Greg raises his eyebrows questioning.

“For this case,” Mycroft elucidates.

“Ah, no, don’t think so,” Greg says. “If you can get hold on Charlie Jones’s ex-wife, that would be nice. I think that’s where I start.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Mycroft promises. “And I’ll look into Nina Owen, though I can’t be certain something will come up.”

“I understand that,” Greg says. “And maybe you could use your powers and try to figure out something, or better even, _someone_ to connect all of them.”

“That won’t be so easy,” Mycroft says surely.

“That’s why you’re going to use your superhuman powers,” Greg winks. He puts all the binders into a pile and puts on his coat. “Keep me updated, yeah?”

Mycroft only nods. Greg says his goodbyes and leaves the office. Outside in the street, he puts the binders under his arm and lights up a cigarette. He takes the four minutes it takes to smoke to put some clearness into his thoughts. His mind is full of Cold War and things that won’t actually help him any further with the case. Greg wonders if it’s possible to age fifteen years in half an hour; he feels it’s almost impossible for him to solve this since most of the resources are out of reach. What he has is a couple of names, things he shouldn’t know, and one lead to follow. It’s more than he has had the past weeks, but it’s still too little.

*

A couple of days later there is a corpse found in the Thames. The sky has been matted grey for the entire day, and rain comes down as lazy big drops that get right trough clothes. It’s that kind of rain that makes the air humid and skin underneath the clothes more sweaty wet and rain wet. It’s horrible. It reminds Greg of being in his twenties and wearing the wrong clothes in every weather. Short sleeves in wind and rain, long sleeves and heavy boots in late August heat waves. He’s not in his twenties any more, and he knows how to dress weather appropriately. He should know how to dress. Apparently, he doesn’t, because the mid-April rain makes him sweaty and irritated. Sally is already there. She’s wearing weather appropriate, neon yellow raincoat that has two-inch-wide reflectors around the waist and over the shoulders. It’s way too big for her, and it makes her look tiny.

“Please, give me good news,” Greg says. Sally raises her eyebrows, grinning widely.

“Really?” she asks. “What would you take as good news? There’s a woman lying dead, it’s raining cats and dogs and as far as I know, the body has been in the water for _days_ , so that’s nice.”

“Do we know who she is?” Greg asks. Sally shakes her head, raindrops fly off her hair.

“As said, she’s been in the water for so long it’s not actually sure if it’s a woman or not, but it’s a guess. The body’s small, but not so small it could be a child. It’s a wind guess,” Sally says. “The clothes are pretty androgynous and the water has done its part on destroying almost everything.”

“Did you see the body?” Greg asks. A white tent has been put over the body to cover it from civilian eyes and the pouring rain.

“No,” Sally answers, making a face. “Water bodies aren’t really my favourite thing, you know.”

“I know,” Greg says softly. “It’s alright, let’s get this thing going then, shall we?”

“Ay, ay,” Sally says, mock saluting him.

They’ve sent the body to Barts for autopsy. Molly looks tired as she takes off her protective gear. Greg has been waiting in the hospital for her to do the autopsy. He wishes Molly has gotten something out of the body, a confirmation on their sex would be a start.

“So?” Greg asks impatiently as Molly walks towards him.

“It’s a she,” Molly says. “She has all her teeth left so that’s something. Probably somewhere between forty-five to fifty-five years old. That’s a big leeway but she’s not in a very good condition to find out.”

“That’s a lot more than we got earlier. And the cause of death?” Greg asks.

“She’s been shot twice. The wounds aren’t very visible any more, but there was signs of a gunshot and scatters of bullets inside her chest,” Molly tells him. The body is already covered with a white sheet, but Greg has seen the pictures. He has seen a lot of water bodies in his time, but it’s never nice to see one. Water does a lot of damage on a human body as the decomposing starts far faster and everything gets mushy and bloated. Burned bodies are probably the only more disgusting to see. They also smell more.

“So it’s safe to assume someone has tried to get rid of the body,” Greg says. It sounds so similar to Leon Braddock, Mark White and Charlie Jones that Greg has to try really hard to keep his cool. If this is another victim of that sort, it’s both a lead and something to complicate things. It means the killer is still around, killing people as he goes. Who knows how many people has he killed and thrown into some body of water already.

“Do you have any idea who she is?” Greg asks wistfully. Molly smiles a little.

“Some,” she answers. “She has her teeth, but it’ll take some time for the dental records to go through.”

“As long as it does, that’s all that matters,” Greg says. “Thank you. Send everything straight back to me, and call if there is something urgent.”

“You sure?” Molly asks. “It’s quite late.”

Greg makes a dismissing gesture with his hand. “It’s fine, I’m on a late shift anyway.”

“It’s half past eleven,” Molly points out, nodding towards the clock. “Your ‘late shifts’ don’t go until midnight.” She makes quotation marks with her fingers to emphasis her point.

“How could you know that?” Greg asks. Molly grins.

“I don’t,” she says. “But Sherlock does. He talks to himself when he thinks no one can hear him.”

Greg laughs. “Does he?”

“Yes,” Molly says, shrugging. “It gets annoying after two hours.” She says that but her voice is soft and warm, and her cheeks get pink.

“Well, whatever,” Greg says, changing the subject off from Sherlock again. “Just call me. I have a million unsolved cases on my plate, and I don’t want to add this one onto the pile.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Molly says firmly. “ _If_ there is something urgent. Otherwise, I’ll forward the autopsy report to your unit, you know, as it’s supposed to be done.”

“Fine,” Greg sighs.

“Go home, Greg,” Molly says, smiling warmly.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Greg jokes, but does as he’s told.

Identifying the body takes a lot longer than Greg would have liked. When they finally get a name and an age, Ann-Janette Parker, 55-years old, it turns out to be another dead end.

“What the hell is going on?” Sally mutters under her breath, looking at the information their database gives for Ann-Janette Parker. It’s basically nothing. Greg bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. The similarities are way too clear not to ignore any longer.

“Doesn’t ever middle-aged woman have Facebook these days?” Sally asks. “She doesn’t. And according to these, she hasn’t had a job until last year. No known relationships. The missing person report was done by her boss after he couldn’t get a hold of her for a week and she hadn’t turned up to work. That’s just sad that no one else didn’t even notice she was gone other than her boss.”

“Hmm,” Greg hums. “Why don’t you go and see the boss? Take Andrew with you. Ask what she was like, did she had a relationship or someone she used to talk about, or if she seemed like she was in danger. The usual drill.”

“Uh, okay,” Sally says, visibly surprised by the command. “You’re not coming with?”

“Nah,” Greg says. “I’ll go by her house, see if there’s something notable there.”

Ann-Janette Parker lives in an apartment building in Barking. Her apartment has a tiny kitchen, one bedroom and the bathroom is painted yellow that make it nasty looking. She has only a couple of furniture, a two-seater couch, single bed and small office desk, but she doesn’t have a television or a dining table. Everything is very clean, no dirty dishes in the sink or random items of clothing on the floors.

A couple of crime scene investigators are still there taking pictures and fingerprints. They tell Greg that nothing particularly striking has come up, but let Greg in to make his own conclusions. Greg goes through Parker’s mail, but there is nothing interesting in the pile. No handwritten letters, for example, but also nothing else personal. No magazines or anything like that that could tell something about her interests. Greg has to open every cupboard and closet until he finds anything interesting. In a closet with a few different coats, there is a tote bag and inside of it a Garmin GPS, a couple of pens and pencils, a tiny Swiss Army knife and a flashlight. Greg gets one of the investigators to take pictures, and then they put into evidence packs. Apart from that, there really isn’t anything. She has a laptop, but it’s password protected, so they can’t get into it right there. They have people for that back in the station. 

When Greg gets back to the Scotland Yard, Sally and Andrew aren’t back yet. Greg uses the time to go into his office and call Mycroft. He sits down into his chair and rolls a pen around his middle finger as he listens to the beeps. He counts five, then he hears a click and Mycroft’s voice.

“ _Greg._ ”

“Hi,” Greg says. “How quickly could you check something out? Or someone, I guess.”

“ _What is it?_ ” Mycroft asks. The wind is blowing into the microphone, it makes a rattling sound.

“A woman was found dead today. Shot twice and then thrown in water. We’ve got a name, but all we got from it is shit There’s nothing about her. I’m pretty sure it’s another one,” Greg says, he talks quickly, glancing towards the rest of the unit through the glass walls. He avoids talking straightly about the case, but he can tell Mycroft knows what he’s talking about.

“ _Sounds similar enough_ ,” Mycroft says. His words are short and quick as well. Greg wonders where he is and with whom.

“Could you check it out?” Greg asks, almost pleads. If it is what he thinks it is, it means Greg can’t do anything without Mycroft’s resources.

“ _Send everything you’ve got to me_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I’ll see what I can do._ ”

“Thank you,” Greg says, words coming out of his mouth as a breath.

“ _Don’t mention it_ ,” Mycroft says. The wooshing of the wind stops abruptly and with that, Mycroft’s words start to sound more relaxed. “ _When was the last time you travelled outside the country?_ ”

Greg makes an incoherent noise. “I don’t know, years ago. Why?”

“ _I found a certain Charlotte Jones née Valk. She lives in Friesland, Netherlands,_ ” Mycroft says.

“I can’t just go to bloody Holland—” Greg starts to say.

“ _I_ _think you can_ ,” Mycroft says with a hint of order but also some lightness. “ _Take a long weekend. I think your department can manage a couple of days without you as you take this Friday off to have some downtime._ ”

Greg grunts. “You’ve already done it, have you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says, sounding pleased with himself. Greg sighs.

“You know, this is not okay,” he says, but his voice doesn’t quite match up with his words. _Yes_ , he’d like to go to the Netherlands, he’s never been. And some time off from work would be a good idea.

“ _If you want to see Charlotte, you need to go, I’m afraid_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I’ve only made some arrangements and it should be alright for you to take the time off. Anthea has been kind enough to have a brief meeting with some people who’d be very amenable for your holiday_.”

“Of course, she has,” Greg mutters. He lets the pen drop from his fingers. “But fine. Have you also booked my flights or can I do something?”

“ _I_ _n fact, Anthea has_ ,” Mycroft says, “ _since she has more patience with the booking websites. I have been in contact with Charlotte Jones. Only for her to know that his ex-husband’s case has been reopened by different people and I’d like to send someone to see her. She would like to see you on Saturday for lunch._ ”

“Alright then,” Greg says and lets out a half-laugh, half-scoff. “I guess I’m going on holiday then.”

“ _I guess you are._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you know how in all the detective shows the MC has a bulletin board full of pictures and strings and question marks then they get super drunk when they get too frustrated with it (Deadwind style)? I'm fighting an urge to write just that. anyway, hopefully, I'll be able to update the next chapter on the 30th of Aug. ch9 will have ex mrs lestrade in it and a teenager's birthday party, so get ready for that. <3
> 
> (find me in [twitter](https://twitter.com/katastrofeja) and [tumblr](https://avvuwrites.tumblr.com/))


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya.  
> first things first! this fic is now a series!  
> let's just say that over the past four months papoe grew itself a plot and a half in addition to the original plot(s). which is fine, just, it's a lot to work with. i'm not sure if it's more reader-friendly to have it cropped into shorter (~100k) parts, but it's writer-friendlier for sure. nothing else has changed! so this first part of the series is going to be 10 chapters.
> 
> so. six weeks. I was actually almost ready with this chapter a long time ago, but something was just _wrong_ and I couldn't just let it go so I wrote the whole chapter again and in the middle of that it added itself 3000 words and I believe this might be the longest chapter yet? aaand because I decided to turn this into a series, there were things I wanted to add into the first part of the series, which, yeah. a lengthy chapter with a lot of mentions of places (it's a game of Which Places Has Avvu Lived In/Visited), a lot of important dialogue and inner monologue, the first-ever mentioned nonbinary character (bc we nonbinary babes are important) AND to celebrate the bi visibility week, a very bi Greg.  
> hope you like it <3

Sally stands in front of Greg’s office desk with her arms crossed on her chest and both of her eyebrows raised with such disbelieve Greg wonders if he should get worried.

“You never go _anywhere_ ,” Sally says.

“I do now,” Greg says, and probably he should get worried. About himself. It shouldn’t be as big of a surprise that he’s travelling abroad for a couple of days. He’s not even going that far, the Netherlands is basically in the neighbourhood. It’s Thursday, and Anthea has been texting him every day since Mycroft has told Greg Charlie Jones’s ex-wife wants to meet Greg the upcoming Saturday. He’s supposed to fly to Amsterdam at noon on Friday.

“Why?” Sally asks.

Greg shrugs; it’s easier than straight-up lying. “Just because.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sally says. She tries to sound more firm and strict, but the corners of her mouth keep twitching upwards.

“My plans don’t really care if you believe me or not,” Greg says, trying to make a stop to the topic of conversation. This is why he hasn’t told Sally, or anyone at his unit, earlier. All he has said was that he need Sally to take the charge for the next couple of days because he’s having a few days off. It wasn’t supposed to become this sort of thing, but Sally has been demanding to know why he’s having a holiday in the middle of April.

“You’re keeping something from me,” Sally says, it’s a statement, not a question. Greg has known it won’t be easy to have his own case on the side when he has a whole floor full of nosy, tattletale detectives.

“I’m not,” Greg sighs.

Sally stops trying to fight her smile and _grins_. “Are, too,” she says. “How was your date with _Stella_?”

Greg tries hard not to groan out loud. He hasn’t regretted his date with Stella at the time, but it causes remorse every time someone points it out.

“It was almost two weeks ago,” Greg says.

“That’s not an answer,” Sally says. Greg rolls his eyes so hard it hurts a little.

“It was _fine_ ,” he says. “Nothing special.”

“Alright,” Sally says, the smug grin still on her face. “So you’re saying that this sudden urge to go on holiday has nothing to do with her, then?”

“Yes,” Greg says, with as much emphasis as he can. “Now stop it and do something useful for a chance.”

“Fine,” Sally says, not moving one bit. “I’m just saying, if you _are_ seeing Stella, I’m really happy for you. She’s nice.”

“But I’m not seeing her,” Greg answers.

“Okay,” Sally says shrugging, then—finally—changing the subject adds: “Andrew had something for you, should I send him in?”

“Please,” Greg says. His phone vibrates and lights up on the desk for yet another text message from Anthea. Greg doesn’t remember saving her contact details in his phone, but all of her messages are under the name _Anthea R._ He has decided fairly quickly it’s best if he doesn’t know how it has appeared in the contact list without him noticing. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

_Mr Holmes would like to know if you need a ride to Heathrow airport tomorrow?_

Greg thinks for a moment before he types an answer. Anthea would turn a deaf ear to a simple _No_ , so that’s no use. Greg has been planning on taking a cab to the airport, it’s a pain to drive there and get a parking spot for a decent price. But now that he thinks of it, a ride would be nice.

 _Sure_ , he types and sends. It takes only a half a minute for Anthea to answer.

_There will be a car outside your building at 10.15 AM._

Greg ten-fours the message and puts his phone back down. There is a knock on the office door and Andrew comes in.

“What is it?” Greg asks, waking up his computer as he speaks. The machine makes a whirring sound.

“The stuff that you found at Ann-Janette Parker’s house, the GPS and stuff,” Andrew starts, taking the visitor’s seat. “I’m pretty sure I know what they’re for.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard of geocaching?” Andrew asks. He has his phone out and he’s typing something.

“Heard of, yeah,” Greg answers. “Though I’m not very familiar with it.”

“My girlfriend is into it,” Andrew says, turning his phone for Greg to see. Greg takes it to his hand to see better. A video is playing on the screen, it seems to be a tutorial on how geocaching works.

“You can use your phone for it, but some people use GPS,” Andrew explains. “The pens and pencils were also a giveaway.”

“Right,” Greg says. In the video, a voice tells him how to log your findings. “Is it possible to know where she’s been doing this?” Greg asks, gesturing towards the video tutorial.

Andrew shrugs. “Probably, yeah. She might have something on her phone or her laptop. And maybe she has saved some coordinates on the GPS. I could ask Rose if she knows better.”

“If you could,” Greg says. The video ends and Greg hands the phone back to Andrew. “And ask the IT if they could check her laptop for any geocaching stuff.”

“Will do,” Andrew says. “Do you think it’ll be of any use?”

“I think anything is at this point,” Greg sighs. “We haven’t figured out where she was killed yet, maybe her movements could be an indicator towards the right place.”

Andrew looks uncertain. “You have no idea how many caches there are in London, haven’t you?” He types something on his phone again and shows it to Greg. It takes a moment for Greg to register what he’s looking at. The whole screen is full of green, orange and blue dots, and underneath those, it seems to be a map of London.

“That’s… a lot,” Greg says.

“There are like two thousand caches in London alone,” Andrew says. “And probably a couple of hundred of thousands in the UK. Are we that desperate?”

Greg wants to say yes. They indeed have no idea where Ann-Janette Parker was killed, and finding that out will help them to solve her murder. He hasn’t heard anything from Mycroft yet, thereby Greg can’t be sure if his hypothesis about her is right or not, but Greg is keeping that possibility open. It’s the best he’s got. And even if no one has prohibited him from telling his team about the case he’s solving with Mycroft, Greg has made the decision himself. He hates to keep things from them, but the case has so much information he couldn’t tell them anyway that it’s easier to keep quiet. Greg _hates_ to be the rogue cop from all the detective shows, all he’s lacking is a drastic backstory and alcoholism to have the whole experience. He’s always ordering everyone to share and disallowing solo projects, and there he is, doing just that. Or, the other explanation, he’s doing a bit of unpaid freelancing for the government, but that sounds even worse.

“Maybe we’re not checking every one of those, but let’s try to find something, alright,” Greg says. “You have more knowledge on the thing, so have a chat about it with Dave from tech.”

“So we _are_ that desperate,” Andrew says. “That’s good to know. Should I call Rose and tell her I won’t be home until next Thursday?”

“Very funny,” Greg says dryly. “You’ll get home for breakfast tomorrow if you’re fast.”

“No wonder you’re going on holiday now,” Andrew says, grinning with all of his teeth.

“It has nothing to do with anything,” Greg says, which make it sound it has everything to do with everything. Andrew gives him a look that says _As if_ , but he leaves the office. Greg follows him with his eyes only turning back to his computer when he sees Andrew turning to the direction of the tech unit.

Greg’s phone buzzes again. He sighs, expecting it to be Anthea with something to add to her dozen messages. But it’s not Anthea, it’s Jamie. Before opening the message, Greg glances at the tabletop calendar; it’s the last whole week of April, the month changing the Friday after next. Greg doesn’t remember many birthdays by heart, only his mother’s, Maggie’s, the twins’ and his god-daughter Ellie’s. Ellie is turning fourteen the first of May, so Greg can guess what the message is about.

_We’re celebrating Ellie’s birthday on Saturday the second, whatever time suits you the best between noon and 8P M ;)_

Greg smiles at the end of the message. It has been one too many times he has had to cancel or postpone his visits and plans with Ellie, and for the past three years, Jamie has invaded him at an indeterminate time. It’s easier for everyone that way and the new system has been noted working.

 _I’ll find space for you_ , he types, thinks for a moment and adds a question: _Should I get something for Ellie from the NL or is she too big for souvenirs?_

It takes a couple of minutes for Jamie’s answer to arrive.

_I don’t think anyone’s ever too big for souvenirs. Something sweet will do._

Greg makes a mental note to get something sweet for both Ellie _and_ Jamie, the message seems like a very clear hint.

  
  


*

  
  


The next morning Greg has packed a bag and he’s waiting for the promised ride to arrive. He’s been waiting a few minutes, half a cigarette more precisely. Greg doesn’t know what to expect from the trip. He hopes Charlotte Jones can help him to some direction, but if not, he hopes at least the weather would be nice enough; London has woken up grey and rainy.

Greg is flying to Amsterdam and continuing north by train. He doesn’t know much about the destination. Anthea has told him the city is called Leeuwarden, but Greg has never heard of it. He has googled it and learned there is a few hundred years old leaning tower and a lot of water there.

Greg finishes the cigarette as a black car pulls up in front of him on the street. He takes the back seat and finds Anthea sitting there.

“Good morning,” she says, looking up from her phone and giving Greg a quick smile.

“Morning,” Greg answers, then after a moment: “No Mycroft?”

“Mr Holmes is busy with the, er…” Anthea says, stops to think and continues with: “The upcoming election. But he asked me to tell you good luck with your trip and he hopes to see you once you’re back.”

“Well, I could use a ride home,” Greg says half-joking.

“Notes,” Anthea says with a serious tone of voice. She puts her phone away and takes an envelope out of her handbag. “This is your tickets, and I printed out both addresses for the hotel and for the restaurant Mrs Jones wants to meet you. There is a hotel room under your name. I hope I’ve chosen a room of your likings,” she says. She sounds confident enough, and Greg bites down a frown. If Anthea’s taste is as grand as Mycroft’s, Greg is going to be awfully underdressed for the whole two days. He has put on his probably oldest and most battered-looking shoes.

“No need to worry, Inspector.” Anthea laughs, the sound is clear and warm. “It’s a three-star hotel, and the biggest luxuries are a decent bathroom, its own balcony and a king-size bed.”

“That’s a lot,” Greg says, but he has to admit it sounds very nice. Not to mention, as Anthea has told him time and time again, he doesn’t have to pay for it. Apparently, the trip goes under some expenses the government or whoever owes to Mycroft.

“That’s _enough_ ,” Anthea says. “You should thank me, or the next time I need to book a flight and a room for you, I’ll make it first class and a five-star hotel, full board and a suite.”

“Thank you,” Greg says quickly.

“Attaboy.”

Greg doesn’t say anything about the hypothetical next time. He hopes this wouldn’t become a thing, he doesn’t enjoy travelling that much. And he would probably never hear the end of it if he started to make trips abroad more often, especially as he doesn’t travel outside London that often. Sally’s been right saying he rarely goes _anywhere_. Travelling alone just isn’t very appealing to him. Maybe if he had company it would be a whole another story, but for the time being, he enjoys staying put in England.

“So,” Anthea says as the car arrives at Heathrow. “There will be a car waiting when you get back on Sunday. Try to have fun.”

“You do know this is not for pleasure, right?”

Anthea smiles widely. “You have a 48-hour-trip with one, approximately hour to hour and a half long meeting. You sleep around six hours and forty-five minutes per night and subtracting the time that goes for normal human functions, eating and showering and such, and the time it takes to travel around, that leaves you with twenty hours of free time.”

Greg looks at her and breathes in slowly. “How—?”

“I work for Mr Holmes, that’s how,” Anthea says lightly.

“For a man who says he hates gossiping he seems to gossip a lot,” Greg mutters.

“Don’t worry about it,” Anthea says with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m just nosy.”

  
  


  
  


It’s weird how just over two hundred miles change the weather completely. An hour and a half away from the grey and cloudy London, Amsterdam is sunny and bright. Guess the grass really is greener on the other side of the North Sea. It does seem so as he travels through the country to get to his destination.

Greg takes a cab from the train station to help the navigation. It’s way past lunchtime when he arrives at the hotel Anthea has booked for him. The room he has for the weekend is nice, and fortunately, it’s not as grand as he has been dreading for. It’s _nice_ , and the bathroom is more like huge than decent, but otherwise, it’s pretty basic, and most importantly, it doesn’t make Greg feel unsophisticated. Although the view from the balcony makes him rather happy he doesn’t have to pay for it himself.

After he has eaten a quick late lunch in the hotel restaurant, he takes Anthea’s advice and tries to have fun. He has left home in the detective mode, with his mind scape being solemnly work-related, it takes a bit of willpower to leave that behind and go into the free time mode. A holiday mode would be too much to ask just then; not even a different country could make him forget the reason he’s there in the first place. The meeting with Charlotte Jones is still in the back of his mind when he takes a tourist map from the hotel lobby and goes to explore the city.

Greg has to admit he hasn’t known a lot of things about the Netherlands as a country beforehand, and even less about the city of Leeuwarden, which is why—even after all the research he’s done—he finds it surprising just how much water there is. The city is beautiful; old brick buildings and water running through it.

Greg tries to make the most of his time there, and after a couple of hours of wandering around the city, he starts to enjoy himself. He visits a few different stores and when he comes across a book store with a huge, bright display window, he decides to go inside and buy Ellie’s birthday present there. Hence Ellie is always collecting some book series, Greg has given her books as birthday and Christmas presents ever since she learned to read. It’s an easy and safe thing to give her, but only because Greg is sure she’ll like them. A little bird called Jamie has given Greg a list of books Ellie’s been asking for. The list has writers Greg can recognise from the earlier years, and as the book store seems to have a whole section of young adult novels in English, Greg doesn’t have problems finding what he’s looking for.

When Greg gets back to the hotel, it’s already dark, and he’s feeling tired from all the travelling and walking. He sends a picture of his shoppings to Anthea with a covering note: _Took your advice AND took care of my goddaughter’s bd present. Happy?_ It takes a couple of minutes for Anthea to answer, and her text is just one word: _Approved._

  
  


  
  


_*_

  
  


The place Greg and Charlotte Jones’s meeting is supposed to be, is more like a café than a restaurant. There aren’t many people around when Greg arrives there, but as the clock comes closer to the lunchtime, the small and cosy place starts to fill with people. Greg has seen Charlotte’s picture, but she’s still something else than he has expected: Charlotte Jones is a tall woman in her forties, she has short, platinum white hair and a lot of tattoos around her arms and some on her neck. However, the first impression of her doesn’t exactly scream a murder suspect. Her smile is warm and genuine. Greg can’t wait to hear her story. They shake hands and introduce themselves.

“Thank you for seeing me, Charlotte,” Greg says. He fiddles with his phone for a moment before asking: “Is it alright if I record this?”

“Yeah, sure. And Lotte, please,” Lotte says, she’s smiling but her restless fingers reveal how nervous she is. “Are you a spy or something?”

At that very moment, Greg isn’t sure what he is. _Something_ , for sure, but is he there as Detective Inspector Lestrade or some freelancer rogue cop who isn’t getting paid even under-the-counter?

“I’m not a spy,” Greg says- He decides to go with the truth. Or the next closest thing. “I work as a detective in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London.”

Lotte’s smile flutters a bit. “Right,” she says.

“I’m investigating a couple of cases similar to your ex-husband’s death,” Greg says, wondering if that is already too much said.

“Well, the man I spoke with said you’re the best they can offer, so.” Lotte trails off, her voice is uncertain.

“Not a fan of the police?” Greg guesses.

“You could say that,” Lotte answers. She shifts in her chair, she sits straighter and clears her throat. The little change in her posture makes her look a lot more confident than earlier. “So, what do you want to know?”

“Let’s starts from the beginning, shall we?” Greg starts the recording on his phone and takes out a small notepad. He has written down some questions and other things he wants to know. And there is a lot of things he wants to know as she is the only lead he has. “When did you meet Charlie?” Greg asks.

Lotte grunts. “I need coffee for this,” she says. It takes a few minutes for her to order a coffee and having it brought to the table. She takes a sip, then a breath.

“I met Charlie in Norway, it was 1998,” she starts. “Only back then he told me his name was Ed. I was going around Europe with my motorcycle, I was supposed to go from Northern Finland to Alta and happened to make a stop in Kautokeino. Charlie was there doing some whatever work stuff he was doing back then, I never really knew what he was doing. I heard him talking on his phone in a grocery store, and I was so happy to hear someone talking English after all the Slavic and Scandinavian languages I knew nothing of. We started talking and long story short, we had a lot of sex for a couple of days.”

“Did you know what he did for work?” Greg asks.

Lotte laughs. “No. He told me he was a biologist. It took me four years to figure out he was something else entirely.”

“But you did know he was working for the MI6?” Greg makes sure.

“Yeah,” Lotte answers. “He told eventually. It was the same night he proposed to me. I guess he wanted to make sure I still wanted to marry him even if he was a spy. The whole Queen and country didn’t seem like him at all, but maybe he felt obligated.”

“Did you start dating right away?”

“Nah,” Lotte says, drinking her coffee. “I was in the middle of my road trip through Europe and he was doing whatever. I left a couple of days later and left him my number. Told him to call me when he was back in Britain. He did, three months after that,” Lotte says. “It took a couple of years of casual dating before it got serious. I was twenty-five and he was forty-two. I didn’t have a problem with it, but some people did.”

“Did he?”

Lotte shrugs. “For some time, I think. It got easier after people, mainly my family, got sued to the idea. We got married in 2002 and we stayed married for almost ten years. I didn’t from him for a couple of years until last autumn when he called me out of nowhere. It was September or early October, I can check that out if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Greg says, writing it down nevertheless. “What did he want?”

Lotte stays quiet for a moment, such in her teeth, and the anxious movements of her fingers return. “Charlie wanted to catch up. He asked where I was living there days and stuff like that. I told him, there was no reason not to. Yeah, we got divorced but it was a clean one, no hard feelings, you know. I guess we just grew apart. But because we didn’t have kids together, there hadn’t been any reason to keep in touch afterwards. It was nice to hear from him, but that was the last time.”

Greg thinks how a moment how to shape his next question. He tries to avoid leading questions, but it’s hard when he wants to get simple yes or no answers. “Did he seem worried or otherwise strange?”

Lotte bites her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she says then. “I didn’t think so back then, not even when the news of his death came. I mean, he always said his job wasn’t exactly dangerous, but I think he was always a bit worried. But then I got the letter.”

“Yes, I’ve been it,” Greg says, wishing he would have had a copy with him.

“It just seems so weird to me that first Charlie gets in touch with me after a few years of silence, asks where I live and stuff, then gets himself dead, and I get a letter where someone offers me three million. The letter came to my house, so whoever sent it must have done a lot of digging to get to me.” Lotte takes a moment before continuing. “I was stupid for thinking the time in jail was no big deal if I had three million quid laying on my bank account. I knew the letter was from the killer or someone who was helping them, but it didn’t seem important back them. Charlie was dead and I was having a bit of a rough time in general. Fortunately, my lawyer talked me out of it, told me that I just told the truth and turned in the first letter, I would be fine. Well, I got laid off from work because the whole court case, and, to be honest with you, the money would have been nice.” Lotte laughs dryly.

“Wait,” Greg says, feeling tacky ignoring her hard times like that, but there was something she had said. “The _first_ letter? There were more than one?”

Lotte blinks her eyes. “Yeah. I thought you’ve seen them?”

“I’ve seen _a_ letter. Just one,” Greg says. “I’ve seen the one where they promise you the three million if you took the blame.”

“I turned in two,” Lotte says, her brows are knitted and she looks pained. “There was another one. The second one came just before the trial. It was just some threats and shit like that. It was stupid, but it got me scared. Only, it had the opposite outcome they must have wanted,” she says, smiling with only her mouth. “Guess it’s not that important if you haven’t seen it.”

Greg writes down _2nd letter?,_ and asks: “So your lawyer made you change your mind. After the second letter?”

“Yeah,” Lotte says and at the same time she takes her wallet out of her handbag, opens it and pulls out a black and gold business card. She hands it to Greg. It has the law firms contact details in it with bold letters. “He knew right away something wasn’t right and he as good as forced me to show the letter to him.”

“Good thing he did,” Greg says. He puts the card between the notepad. “Did you recognise the handwriting in the letters?”

“No,” Lotte says. “Though, I guess it’s fairly easy to a fake one, don’t you think?”

“So I’ve heard,” Greg says, mostly to himself. “When you were married, did you know any of Charlie’s friends? Anyone he worked with?”

Lotte thinks for a moment. “We didn’t talk about his job, for the obvious reason, there were too many things he couldn’t tell me even if he wanted. And for the most part, I think he didn’t want to tell me anything. And all of his workmates used fake names and stupid nicknames. I guess he had some friends, but let’s just say, he knew a lot of Johns, James’ and Michaels and half of them were Smiths and Jones’. And _yes_ , I know I’m probably still using one of his fake last names.”

“Does any of these names sound familiar: Mark White, Jack O’Hara, Nina Owen, Leon Braddock or Sean Taylor?” Greg asks, listing all the names and known fake identities.

“No, sorry,” Lotte says without much time for thinking. “I would have remembered a Nina or a Leon in the middle of all the general white dude names Charlie used to talk about.”

“Alright,” Greg says, he’s not surprised but he had to try. “Could you think of anyone who could have killed him?”

Lotte takes a deep breath, looks out of the window and absent-mindedly rubs her hands together with the same anxious movements. “No, I can’t,” she says finally.

Greg tries to keep his voice steady. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Lotte says, then repeats herself: “Yes. I’m sure. I never knew a lot of people he knew, and he never told me if he was in some serious danger. I really don’t know if he had gotten himself an enemy or something.”

“But?” Greg says the word with a calm, low voice, even if he wanted to force the answer out of her. She’s obviously thinking about something or someone, and Greg can’t solve the bloody thing if she’s not talking to him.

“He was political,” Lotte says. “And you know how they go, if you’re far left, the far right will piss in your cereal whenever you don’t look. He wasn’t far-anything, only he had a lot of opinions about things, the more controversial the better. He wasn’t an easy person to have a political conversation with. He never listened to anyone’s opinions if they differ from his owns, and he got worse when he drank. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, he _drank_. So yeah, as far as I know, he could have gotten killed by some person he had met in a pub, and maybe he’d gotten a bit hotheaded over whatever shit he got hotheaded over that time. He was good at pissing people off just by talking.”

“So you’re saying he didn’t have enemies, but he could have pissed someone off to the point they would have shot him and thrown him into the Thames?” Greg asks.

“I don’t know,” Lotte says. “Maybe.”

Greg clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. Maybe there were some people in the world whose divorce really was as easy and painless as everyone likes to pretend. He can hear the bitterness in Lotte’s words, and he recognises it because it’s the same bitterness his own voice has had when he has talked about Cora. If Greg has to guess, he would say Lotte and Charlie have had a few of those hotheaded politically charged conversations. Greg ends the recording.

“I think I’ve got everything I need,” he says. “Thank you for your time.”

Lotte looks surprised. “No worries,” she says. “You sure?” she adds.

“Yep,” Greg says, but turns a new page on the notepad and writes down his phone number. He tears out the page and gives it to Lotte. “Give me a call if anything else comes to mind, alright?”

Lotte takes the paper and nods. However, the way she doesn’t even look at it is a clear sign she won’t call.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


London welcomes him back as grey as ever, although Greg thinks trees are looking greener than two days ago. Once he is back at Heathrow and takes his phone off the aeroplane mode, he receives a text message from Anthea telling him where to find the car that is already waiting for him. It doesn’t take him long to get to the car, since he only has carry-on luggage with him and over the past months he has become fairly good at spotting the black Jaguars. The car engine starts and the backlights turn on as Greg approaches the car, and when he opens the back door and gets in, he finds Mycroft sitting there in his three-piece and the trademark umbrella.

“I hope you had a pleasant trip,” Mycroft says as a hello.

“It was nice enough,” Greg answers. It has been nice, even if he spent most of it inside his head turning and twisting the case, trying to put all the new information into its rightful place. He has listened to the recording of the conversation with Lotte for three times, and every time he has listened to it, an irksome feeling grows bigger and bigger. Something’s off with her, but Greg can’t put his finger on what exactly it is that is nagging him. And in addition to that, Sally has texted him the night before and told him she and Andrew have looked into Ann-Janette Parker’s geocaching hobby and they’ve found some coordinated saved in her GPS. Sally and Andrew will check those out, and Sally has promised a written report for Monday morning.

“I assume you haven’t had lunch yet,” Mycroft says, and Greg can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. Probably the latter, Mycroft must know Greg has spent the last five hours in several means of transportation, and he hasn’t had time for eating.

“I haven’t,” Greg tells him anyway.

“I was thinking having a late lunch myself,” Mycroft says, not finishing properly. Greg can’t help himself, a short laugh escapes his mouth.

“You could just ask,” he says. “Lunch sounds nice. And I’ve got a lot of new stuff on the case I think you’d like to know.”

“As do I,” Mycroft says. “I have a place in mind where there should be enough privacy for a conversation of that sort.”

“Jeez,” Greg half groans. “You make it sound like it’s something closer to a state secret than a murder case.”

“Well,” Mycroft says, unbothered by Greg’s teasing, “it is delicate in nature.”

“Sure,” Greg says, then as an afterthought: “Hope I’m not underdressed for _privacy_.”

Mycroft glances at Greg and his eyes linger for two, three, four seconds. “Those will do,” he says. “That’s the things with privacy: no one cares, and no third parties are allowed to care.”

He has no idea what Mycroft’s idea of privacy might be, but he’s sure their ideas differ a lot. Greg finds enough privacy in a far corner booth in a pub, and he has a hard time imagining Mycroft in a pub altogether. Which only makes Greg want to see that. But in this case, Mycroft is talking about buyable privacy. With the right digits, anyone is venal enough not to care.

  
  


  
  


Greg expects some kind of restaurant, like the place they went the last time, but the place is more like a club. It has a private space upstairs and everything in there tells him—and would tell even if he wasn’t a detective—that the place is _way_ over Greg’s usual lunch budget. The biggest giveaway is that the menu doesn’t have prices listed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mycroft says, like the mind reader he is. “The owner owes me.”

Greg looks up from the list of main courses. “I sense a story.”

Mycroft shifts in his seat, it’s a diminutive movement, not noticeable enough to reveal inconvenience, but noticeable enough for Greg to register it.

“It’s nothing too exciting,” Mycroft says, which obviously is belittling the matter. “I had just moved to London, and in my office, at the time there was this one man whose family was in the middle of immigration. I helped them a bit.”

“Was this when you moved to London officially or unofficially?” Greg asks.

Mycroft looks surprised. “Unofficially.”

“So you were, what, nineteen? And you _helped_ some family to immigrate?” Greg asks.

“That’s what I said.”

Greg narrows his eyes. “Did you save them from dragons or something?” he asks. “ _I’ve_ helped some people with their immigration process and none of them still owes me or have me dining in their seven-star restaurant for free.”

“There were no dragons involved, no,” Mycroft says, and per usual, that’s all Greg gets.

“Alright,” Greg says and turns back to the menu. The menu is actually in English and the meals aren’t too posh-sounding for him. Their waiter is a bright-eyed, young lad, he’s very tall and doesn’t look older than twenty. He’s eager and serves them happily, which is a nice contrast compared to the place itself. The surfaces are dark, polished wood and huge, abstract paintings hang on the walls. It doesn’t seem like Mycroft’s usual style, but then again, Mycroft’s style might just be privacy.

They make their orders, and after they’ve got two steaming plates in front of them on the table, Greg tells Mycroft everything Lotte has told him. As he has expected, Mycroft takes notice on the second, missing letter.

“I’ve only seen one,” he says, frowning at his food. “This complicates things.”

“Here’s a suggestion,” Greg says. He has had a lot of time to think about this. “How improbable an inside helper would be?”

“Inside the MI6?”

“Inside whatever he needs,” Greg shrugs. “You think he’s no longer employed by the SIS, right?”

Mycroft nods. “Leon Braddock insinuates as much, but I might be wrong.”

Greg smiles at that. “Like that ever happens,” he says, which makes Mycroft raise his eyebrows.

“If you only knew,” he says. “But most of the time, yes, I’m rarely wrong. But it’s not like I’m the detective one.”

“Well, as the detective one, I can say I’m often very wrong,” Greg says.

Mycroft stays silent for a moment as he eats his food, but Greg can see from the tiniest twitches in his expression that he’s thinking about something.

“Inside help would be beneficial to a killer whose victims are either in the SIS or former employees,” Mycroft says. “But we have an efficacious internal audit and control which separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

“So you don’t think that’s the case?” Greg asks. He’s only a little disappointed. He believes one person is easier to catch than two or more.

“I didn’t say that,” Mycroft says. “I’m just trying to say I would be very surprised if there was someone withholding evidence inside the SIS. It’s plausible, but I wouldn’t count on that.”

“What do you think, then?”

Mycroft’s fork clangs against the plate. “I don’t think anything. There is a possibility that the second letter has been secured so that I just haven’t had a chance to get a hold of it, or it has gotten lost at some point.”

Greg frowns. “I get that, but what Lotte said didn’t seem like it had anything more delicate or secretive than the first one. Some threats, that’s what she said.”

“Maybe she lied,” Mycroft says. “You said it seemed like she knew something but didn’t want to tell you.”

“That could have been just me overanalysing and hoping there would have been more to it,” Greg says quickly. Mycroft gives him a look that asks _Are you sure?_

“I would argue that you are an adept detective with a fair amount of experience on interviews and interrogation _and_ natural knowledge of the human nature,” Mycroft says. “Do you seriously think you’d fall for something as mundane as confirmation bias?”

“I don’t know,” Greg says, then sighs. “I guess not.”

“Cum hoc ergo propter hoc,” Mycroft says, his pronunciation makes the sentence flow easily out of his mouth. Greg hates to admit he has no idea what Mycroft has just said.

“Correlation does not imply causation,” Mycroft translates. “Which goes both ways here. Just because you wish to solve the case as fast as possible doesn’t mean you’ve started seeing false association.”

“But it’s also possible her reactions had nothing to do with the subject,” Greg ends for him, catching on what Mycroft means.

“Precisely.”

“That didn’t help.” Greg grins despite himself. “But I get what you mean.”

“Good,” Mycroft says. “Let’s assume your intuition was right, and she’s hiding something.”

“Like what?” Greg asks. “Did she made up the second letter?”

“She could have,” Mycroft says.

Greg thinks for a moment, moving his food around the plate. The food is delicious, but his mind is running in such a speed it’s impossible to focus on the taste. “I believe the killer did contact her for a second time. But because there hasn’t been another letter anywhere to be found, maybe she lied about that.”

“Which suggests?” Mycroft asks, leading Greg’s thinking to the same direction his must have gone.

“That the killer contacted her some other way,” Greg says. “Fuck,” he curses, and almost expects Mycroft to tell him to mind his language.

“If we try to think about the bright side, that might be what we need,” Mycroft says.

“A mistake?” Greg asks.

“A mistake,” Mycroft says. “And our luck might just hold.”

“How so?”

“Ann-Janette Parker,” Mycroft says. “I have a file if you want to see.”

“Just tell me,” Greg says. He doesn’t doubt it for a second Mycroft wouldn’t remember everything he has read about her.

“Ann-Janette Parker is her real name,” Mycroft starts. “She worked as a field agent for the past thirty years, based mostly in South America, majorly in Peru and Brazil. Parker was fluent in four languages besides English, which were Spanish, Portuguese, French and Japanese, and what I gathered of her life before the SIS, she was supposed to become a Spanish teacher. Her language skills were the main reason for her employment. She wasn’t involved in anything specific, her status as a field agent was more about her Spanish and Portuguese skills than anything else. I believe she worked as a translator.”

“Any connection to the other people?” Greg asks wistfully.

“Actually, yes,” Mycroft says. “You remember Mark White’s motives for his false identity and the pretended accident?”

Greg nods.

“One of the other two agents killed in the ambush was involved with Parker. His name was Oliver Carter. They met in Puerto Rico in 1992, I couldn’t found out what they were doing there, but my guess is it was not a holiday trip. There is a quite literal paper trail connecting Ann-Janette Parker and Oliver Carter after Puerto Rico. Anthea and I counted there must have been over two hundred letters coming back and forth between the years 1992 and 1994. I think it’s safe to say they never met again, since there weren’t any plans along the lines of meeting up, and the pace they wrote to each other was one letter a week for almost three years.”

“Hold on,” Greg says, interrupting Mycroft. “Did you read all the letters?”

“I did,” Mycroft says, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I can easily read a thousand words in a minute, and letters tend to have a similar structure which means the first and last paragraphs are not important if you’re not looking for pleasantries. It took me an hour and a half. I was not in a hurry,” Mycroft adds.

“Show off,” Greg accuses under his breath. “Though, I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Where did you find the letters?” he asks.

“Anthea contacted Oliver Carter’s brother Edward. He still had his late brother’s belonging in his attic. An unfortunate cliché, if you ask me.”

“Not so unfortunate if it helps,” Greg says. He has read Mark White’s files, the one he had before with all the police were able to gather, and the Mycroft had given him. Neither one of them hadn’t had anything detailed about the ambush or the people involved.

“This is good news,” Greg says. “I hate to say this but _this_ is way more than what I got from Lotte. Her life story wasn’t very helpful, she only gave me more questions than answers.

“This has given you answers?” Mycroft asks, he sounds disbelieving.

“Yes,” Greg says straight away. “There is a new connection, and if you’ve ever watched any crime shows, you must know how much we as the police love to have those,” he jokes half-heartedly. He takes a napkin, unfolds it on the table, and takes a pen from his jacket’s pocket. He writes down three names and draws circles around them: _M. White_ , _A-J. Parker_ and _C. Jones_. Underneath White, he draws a line and writers _letters_. From _letters_ , he draws a line to _L. Jones_ and connects that with _C. Jones_. He writers _O. Carter_ between _M. White_ and _A-J. Parker_ , and turns the napkin to face Mycroft.

“All we need now is something to connect Nina Owen and Leon Braddock to them somehow,” Greg says. “And what did you say about luck? I believe it holds,” he adds and draws two more lines: from _A-J. Parker_ and _O. Carter_ to _letters_.

“You’re going to need a bigger napkin,” Mycroft says looking at the doodle.

“You say it likes it was a bad thing,” Greg says. “It just means we’ve got something to follow.”

“I believe your next move would be to go see Oliver Carter’s brother?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “I don’t think Lotte’s going to be in contact with me, so that leaves us with him. Sally has been looking into Ann-Janette Parker’s hobbies, but I’m not exactly hopeful they’re going to be of any help.”

“I’ll ask Anthea to share Edward Carter’s contact information with you,” Mycroft says. “He works at the University of York.”

“That’s convenient,” Greg says. An inquiry for an explanation crosses Mycroft’s face.

“I forgot about Easter.” Greg cringes at the thought; it has not been one of his best moments. “I’ve been meaning to go see my mother and my sister since but haven’t had the time.”

“When would you like to see Carter then?”

“I don’t know yet,” Greg says honestly. “I can’t really say how work’s going to turn out, but as soon as possible. I guess you’re going to be busy with the election for the next couple of weeks,” he adds.

“Busy is a mobile term,” Mycroft says, unhelpfully but not surprisingly.

“I just mean, I don’t want to get too much with the case if you’re not able to be involved,” Greg says. “As much as I’d like to get this thing solved and done with, I don’t think I’ll be much use on my own. So if you’re too busy maybe we should—” Greg doesn’t even know what they should exactly, raincheck, postpone, pause maybe, but Mycroft speaks over him.

“No need,” he says. Here Greg is just trying to make things easier for Mycroft because he knows how annoying it can be to have more than one important thing going on simultaneously.

“The election itself isn’t a busy time,” Mycroft explains. “The last week is mostly unnecessary rallying. People who are interested in following the panel discussions have decided who’s getting their vote some time ago, and no last-minute thing can subvert their decisions. And those people who aren’t interested in that kind of thing, won’t get interested the last week either. Voting itself isn’t busy for me, it’ll happen mostly by itself. The following weeks are the busy ones as the newly elected people are settling in.”

“No pausing then,” Greg says, trying hard to keep his tone neutral, to not let Mycroft hear how relieved he is. A pause would have driven him mad before long.

“I don’t believe we’d have time for that,” Mycroft says.

“What do you mean?”

“This man has been killing since November, as far as we know, and our knowledge may be lacking since he targets untraceable people with little or no known relationships to other people, and he uses water to dispose of the bodies,” Mycroft says. It’s obvious he avoids calling the killer _clever_ _e_ ven though both of them know he is just that. “The timeline of the killings doesn’t have any noticeable evenness, but there are no reasons to believe he’s done yet. The more we investigate the more obvious the investigation will become, which will make the killer either withdraw and therefore complicate the search, or it could make him act faster, increasing the number of victims.”

“I kind of hope he’ll be the latter type,” Greg says. “Those who panic are easier to catch.”

“Panicking, in this case, could only make him more dangerous,” Mycroft says gravely.

“Or he’ll make a mistake that could reveal him,” Greg says, naive wistfulness clear in his words. He tries to keep the creeping, easily overpowering notorious thought out of his mind; those won’t help at all.

“Mistakes are inevitable,” Mycroft says, “and he has made one already by killing Nina and Jessica Owen in their home. We don’t have time to wait for him to make a bigger mistake, we need to get one step ahead of him.”

“Easier said than done,” Greg says. He leans back on his chair and utters the possibility he has had nagging in his mind ever since the meeting with Lotte Jones. “Especially if all the connections we’ve made are just coincidences and the killer doesn’t think that much.”

“That’s an awfully lot of effort for some random killings,” Mycroft points out.

“Obviously they aren’t random, but as you said, there isn’t noticeable evenness in his actions,” Greg says. “Sometimes it’s pointless to try and specify _why_ someone kills, more so if they’ve killed more than once. It’d be easier to catch killers if they had sensible motives, but that right there is the problem: killing is not sensible. Murder is fucking messy. I’ve sat down with so many killers and asked them over and over again why they’ve done it, and usually, they can only tell some trivial background facts or give a reason that could assent the deed. But a major portion of people can’t explain why they’ve killed.”

“You’re right,” Mycroft says, surprising Greg, continuing with: “But.”

Greg laughs. “Of course, there is a but.

“The reason why he murders is not the key,” Mycroft says. “But there is no reason to believe in coincidences. Coincidences are rarely coincidences. Chance and randomness exist, and accidents happen, but if coincidences were to perform a key indicator in the world, logic wouldn’t have any say in things. The lack of evenness in his actions doesn’t subtract how much subliminal reactions his actions hold. There is always a way to get ahead of someone.”

“Alright,” Greg says. “What do you suggest?”

“Edward Carter,” Mycroft answers. “And...” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

“What?” Greg asks, he has a bad feeling about that pause.

“Would it be easier, if we—I—took the individual cases off your unit?” Mycroft asks.

First Greg almost answers with a harsh _No_ right away, but he stops himself to think about it. The honest answer was that it _would_ be easier. He wouldn’t have to lie to his team, and maybe he’d feel less like a bad television detective with a secret side project. But taking away the cases now wouldn’t go silently; everyone in his unit has seen the piling files on his desk, and every one of them has invested their time and effort on the investigations.

“It would be easier, yes,” Greg says truthfully. “But maybe not. It complicates things even further and besides, it’s not a bad thing there are a few rather decent detectives on the cases even if they didn’t know the scale of things.”

“Very well,” Mycroft says. It sounds like giving in, but he doesn’t push it which Greg appreciates.

They finish their meals in comfortable silence. Greg’s mind is racing, he finds himself planning an evening-trip to York to meet Edward Carter. He could stay the night at his mother’s, she would like that. He wonders if Edward Carter would be any more use than Lotte Jones and if he should consider Lotte as a suspect after all.

The silence gets interrupted when Mycroft’s phone starts ringing. Mycroft apologises to Greg before taking the call. Somehow, Greg finds it interesting how little Mycroft talks to the phone but undoubtedly gets his point through. Greg tries not to listen because it’s rude to listen to other people’s phone calls, but it’s almost ridiculous how little he understands about the matter even if he tried to.

“Tell David I’ll call him back in a minute,” Mycroft says to the phone and ends the call, pointing his next words to Greg: “I’m afraid I need to make another call. You can go ahead, this shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Sure,” Greg says, and as Mycroft stands up and walks a few yards further from Greg, Greg takes his coat and heads down. He sees the young waiter on his way out, he praises the food and thanks for the service.

“You’re welcome, sir,” the waiter says smiling widely. “We’re always happy to have Mr Holmes and his companions.”

Greg can barely keep the remark about Mycroft’s lack of TARDIS to himself. He thanks again and goes outside. He lights a cigarette, and Mycroft joins him before the end of the smoke.

“That didn’t take long,” Greg says.

“Things like that usually don’t,” Mycroft answers.

“All right.” Greg can hear from Mycroft’s tone of voice the topic is not up for discussion. The matted grey sky opens almost silently into a pouring rain. As silently Mycroft opens the umbrella to cover them both. It’s a strangely sweet gesture, and it leaves Greg weirdly speechless. He clears his throat.

“So,” he starts. “Anthea’s going to give me the contact details for Carter?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.

Greg lets out a short laugh. “At this rate, _she’ll_ become my most used contact. She texts a lot.”

“Yes, she does,” Mycroft says, and for someone who doesn’t text himself, he sounds almost fond.

In a few seconds, a black car pulls over in front of them.

“Come,” Mycroft says. “We’ll get you home.”

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


Three days out of the office have been enough for a pile of papers to fill, reports to read and documents to file, the absolute pain about being a higher ranked police officer in London. There are pros in it, too, but the paperwork will probably kill him someday.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, sir,” Sally says.

“Piss off, Donovan,” Greg mutters, trying to organise the files and papers on his desk to an order from the most important to the least.

“Travelling didn’t broaden the mind, then?” Sally asks.

“Coming back to work for this really didn’t,” Greg says. “Did you and Andrew got anything from the coordinates?”

“Well,” Sally says, comes into the office and closes the door behind her. “Let’s just say that I’m never going to start geocaching.”

Greg grimaces. “That bad?”

“Yeah,” Sally sighs. “Andy and I went around all the places, it was bloody horrible, my trainers are still wet. All of the coordinates were to a cache. They have these little logbooks in every one of them, and IT found out her username so we were able to look up when she had been there. Most of them were months ago, the most recent one was logged in January.”

“A bloody waste of time then,” Greg groans. He hasn’t been expecting much, but after the unhelpful meeting with Lotte, something would have been nice. Fortunately, Anthea has provided Edward Carter’s phone number and address to him, but unfortunately, Greg hasn’t had time to call him yet. After all the dead-ends the cases have run into, he hopes Edward Carter could be the key to get something going on.

“Pretty much,” Sally says, then bites her lip before saying: “Usually at this point, you’ve called Sherlock to the rescue.”

Greg’s first instinct is to deny that, but that would be a lie; he _would_ have called Sherlock weeks ago if this was a normal case.

“Yeah, well,” Greg starts, playing himself some time to think a good excuse that didn’t involve the Secret Intelligence Service, a serial killer or Mycroft Holmes. “Sherlock’s busy with the, um, the baby.”

“What baby?”

“John and Mary’s baby, you know,” Greg says, trying to get away from the topic with a vague hand gesture.

Sally raises both of her eyebrows. “You’re so full of shit.”

Greg ignores her and tries to occupy himself with the papers. “Did you write the report you promised?”

“I did,” Sally says, pointing at one of the papers Greg has already put on the bottom of the pile. “You know,” Sally says as Greg gets the report and change the order of the papers a bit.

“What?” Greg asks absent-mindedly.

“If something is going on, you could just talk to me.”

Greg looks up from the papers, his stomach lurches with guilt. “I know,” he says.

“You’re my boss and everything but I’d consider us as friends, too, don’t you think?” Sally says. Greg can hear the memorisation from her flat-ish tone.

“Yes, I think so too,” Greg says.

“So,” Sally says. “What’s going on?”

Greg bites the inside his cheek. “Nothing.”

“Greg.”

“Look, Sally,” Greg starts, then stops himself because he’s using his boss voice. He softens his voice and tries again. “It’s nothing for you to worry. I’m serious,” he adds when Sally opens her mouth to speak. “I can’t talk about it but I swear it’s under control.”

“You realise how stupid that sounds?” Sally asks.

“Yes,” Greg admits. “And I know it sounds bad but you have to believe me when I say that you don’t have to be concerned about this.”

“Fine,” Sally huffs. She doesn’t sound that disappointed Greg thinks she should, but she’s not pleased either. “Fine,” she repeats.

“I mean it,” Greg says. “I need you to let this go.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sally says rolling her eyes. “Sorry, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Greg says.

“I am. Because I know you,” Sally says. “God help me. And I know you don’t just let cases go. But for some reason, Mark White and Jessica and Nina Owen have disappeared from your desk.” To emphasis her words Sally knocks on the desk where the binders used to be.

“Sometimes it’s best to let things go, you know,” Greg says.

“Yeah, well, the cases aren’t closed still,” Sally points out.

For some reason, Mycroft’s offer to take the cases away from his unit starts to sound better and better. He curses his sloppiness. The binders Sally’s talking about are still with Mycroft, and some of the papers are on Greg’s living room floor, scattered around so it’s easier for him to see all of it at once. He has never been a wall-pinner, it’s harder to move things around when it’s pinned in place. Sure, his floor has started to get a bit cramped with all the paper and pictures laying around, but it’s better to have the chaos on his floor than in his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” Greg says. “Just, let’s focus on this thing and move ahead. Sometimes cases get stuck and forgotten.”

“Is this going to be one of those?” Sally asks. “This case isn’t getting anywhere, we’re bloody running around in circles looking for geocaches as if they would be of any help.”

“We can solve this,” Greg says, he really wants Sally to believe that, because Greg doesn’t.

“If you say so,” Sally says. “What do you suggest next?”

“She must have friends, colleagues, acquaintances, someone who knew her,” Greg says.

“We talked with her boss,” Sally says, paging the papers on Greg’s desk until she finds the one she was looking for, putting it on top of the pile. “She knew nothing about her, just her address and that she was apparently an extremely over-qualified for a telemarketing job.”

Greg doesn’t doubt that for a second. He wonders what could have driven Ann-Janette Parker to take a job like that. Was it part of some SIS things or did she just want to try something different? Both options seem a bit off.

“Her workmates said she liked to be by herself and no one really knew anything from her. This one bloke, Jacob Harrison, said he went out with her once, but nothing ever came to it. Apparently, Parker was ‘an uptight bitch’.”

“Nice,” Greg says dryly.

“And before you ask, he has an alibi, we checked.”

“Pity,” Greg says.

Sally grins. “I know.”

Greg leans back on his chair. “Right, so. I still think we need to find out where she was killed. Or where she was dumped into the river.”

“How?”

“CCTV, witnesses, the long way around,” Greg says. “The lab did provide us with a time of death, let’s start there.”

Sally groans dramatically. “Can I at least delegate the most boring stuff?”

“Sure,” Greg says. “Now, you start with those and I’ll,”—he sighs—“start with these.”

  
  


*

  
  


That week goes by awfully, painstakingly slowly. It’s a long shot to go through everything that could help pinpoint the place where Ann-Janette Parker was killed. No one likes the boring, slow stuff, but someone has to do it, so there has been a new kind of boring shift within everyone’s usual shifts. Greg is sure he has never drunk more coffee in his life.

However, there has been a silver lining between all of that. He has arranged a meeting with Edward Carter for the next week. They’ll meet at the University of York, Edward has a two hours long gap between classes where he can meet with Greg. Edward Carter has sounded very keen on meeting him, which does rise Greg’s spirits a lot.

That’s why he doesn’t mind it when he parks his car on the driveway in front of Jamie’s house and recognises one of the cars. It’s a red, tiny Toyota and it’s very familiar to him. He has known it would be a possibility, but it’s always a bit weird anyway. He steps out of his car, takes the present and places it on the roof of the car and lights a cigarette. He has been craving for it, and he’s only half-way through it when he hears the front door opening and even more familiar voice says: “I thought you’ve quit that.”

Greg turns around to face his ex-wife. Cora has cut her hair, it’s now a dark bob. Her neck looks thin and long with the shorter hair and big, dangling geometric earrings. She looks nice, younger somehow.

“You know I’m shit at quitting,” Greg says.

Cora grins. “Yeah, I do,” she says, comes closer to give Greg a short hug. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Greg says. “Busy.” It’s a bit of an understatement, but close enough. And he has been _busy_. Among other things.

“Like that’s news to anyone,” Cora says. A few years ago she would have said that with bitter undertones, but now it’s a neutral statement without any harsh feelings. _That’s_ news, but Greg knows better not to point that out.

“How’re you?” Greg asks. Cora shrugs.

“I’m good,” she says. “Got me a new job at St Paul’s.”

“That’s great,” Greg says and means it, too. Maybe he should be all grumpy and virulent towards her, and maybe he has been before, but nowadays it seems like too much trouble. Besides, there used to be a time he and Cora were best friends, and just because their marriage went to shit doesn’t mean their friendship has to go as well. Greg’s too old to hold grudges on things he can’t change.

“Kids are all the same wherever you are, but St Paul’s pays a lot better than any public schools,” Cora says. She seems happy about her new job, and no wonder; she’s always preferred private schools over public ones.

“I’ve been seeing you a lot in the papers lately,” Cora says. It’s probably meant as a positive remark on how Greg’s career is also on its high point, but the reminder of some of the articles the press has been writing about him and the work they’ve done makes him groan.

“A bit too much, if you asked me,” Greg says. “There has been more than a few times this year alone when we’ve had to use only the back door and parking halls to get to the station when the front door has been too crowded with reporters.”

“Isn’t that what you’re paid for?” Cora asks, she has mischief and tease in her voice, it’s a fraction from flirting, something Greg hasn’t heard in _years_. Years ago her tone would have been sarcastic and haughty and the words would have been there to make Greg feel bad for liking his job. It’s nice to hear her lighter tones, although they don’t have the same effect on Greg any more. He can easily smile at her, but the world doesn’t tremble. The feeling is a whisper of a memory from somewhere far back.

“I hope they pay me for catching the bad guys,” Greg says.

A burst of laughter can be heard from the open window, Ellie’s giggle being the clearest. Cora turns to look back towards the house.

“Well,” she says then. “I better be off and you’ve got a cake to eat. It was nice to see you.”

“You too,” Greg says.

Neither of them says anything about having coffee some time or meeting up for a pint or two. Both of them know they won’t say it. And yet, the world doesn’t tremble.

  
  


  
  


As expected, Ellie is very happy about the new additions to her book collections, and for a whole ten minutes, she rambles about these sentient cats who are also warriors and a group of demigods and such.

“And did you know there are Doctor Who novels?” Ellie asks excitedly.

“I did,” Greg answers. “Haven’t read any, though.”

“You should, there are lots and lots in the library,” Ellie tells him as if a library was a foreign term for him. Although, the times he’s visited a library in the last ten years can be counted with one hand, which could indicate he, in fact, doesn’t know what a library is. Ellie talks about school and friends for the next ten minutes and at the same time, Jamie uses the time to unload the dishwasher.

“So,” Greg asks when Ellie’s babble is over. “Should I ask if you’ve started dating yet?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, trying not to giggle; it’s a stupid inside joke between them. A few years ago there was a mishearing incident when Ellie had called him on the phone and told him how they’ve been plaiting at school.

“I haven’t,” Ellie says. “You know you’ll be the first one to know.”

“Good.”

“But Daddy has. He has a _boyfriend._ ”

“Does he now?” Greg asks, looking over at Jamie who’s a bit too interested in the dishwasher.

“Yeah,” Ellie says. “His name is Daryl and he has _two_ dogs, which is good because we can’t have a dog but Daryl can take them to work sometimes. They’re funny, the dogs. And he’s nice. I like him. Nova is also nice, they’re nineteen and Daryl’s their dad, but they live with their mum just like I live with Dad.”

“Sounds nice,” Greg says.

“You should’ve come tomorrow so you could’ve seen Daryl,” Ellie says.

“I should’ve,” Greg says. “But I guess I have to meet him some other time.” Greg points the sentence at Jamie who comes to the living room with an oven tray in hand.

“Do you want cake?”

  
  


  
  


Cake, in this case, is ice cream which suits Greg fine. Jamie makes coffee without asking even though no one else will drink it other than Greg. Ellie seems to be done with sweets for the day, she only takes a cup of tea with her to her room and tells them she’ll be reading her new books, leaving Greg and Jamie alone.

“So,” Jamie says as Greg says: “Well.”

Jamie grins. “I know what you’re asking so let me save you from asking: Yes it’s new, yes it’s serious, that’s middle age for you. And from online.”

“Ellie seems to be taking it well,” Greg notes.

“Yes, she’s just happy I’ve found someone,” Jamie says rolling his eyes. “Apparently she’s been _worried_.”

Greg grins. “That’s teenagers for you.” Seriously it’s kind of distressing to think Ellie, who was a toddler _yesterday_ , is already a teenager and has opinions and knows mathematics and discusses the news. It makes him feel old thinking about that, but it makes him feel older to think it has been fourteen years.

“ _So_ ,” Jamie says. “You saw Cora then?”

Greg has been expecting that. Ever since the divorce with Cora and moving out from their shared apartment and all that, Greg has seen her only a couple of times. But every time it gets easier, it gets more neutral, painless.

“Yeah,” is all Greg can think to say.

“How was it?”

“Yeah, fine,” Greg says, then, because it really sounds like it was not fine: “You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” Jamie says. “Us splitting up was way different than your divorce.”

“And you know I didn’t mean that,” Greg answers dryly. Jamie grins. They never actually split up, because they were never actually together. It was the mid-eighties and they were young and mostly bored. They spent a couple of weeks fucking just for the fun and excitement of it, decided they work better as friends and stayed like that. Greg got married, Jamie had Ellie, life happened.

“Yes, I know,” Jamie says.

“But really, it’s fine,” Greg says. “I mean, it’s fine to see her for five minutes every now and then. I guess that’s the thing with divorce,” he adds, “means you don’t have to see each other all the time.”

It has been both bittersweet and soothing realisation; it’s not new, but seeing Cora after several months, it’s a reminder that, indeed, he can have a civilised conversation with her. When the divorce was fresh and hurt still, people kept telling him that there will be a time it doesn’t feel like that any more, and that there will be a time when he’ll want to start searching for somebody new.

That, however, has not yet happened. _Searching_ is too much effort. Greg is more the stumbling upon kind. If it happens, it happens, and then he’ll deal with that, but putting him out there, to seek and look for someone isn’t natural for him. Even if there was the possibility to find himself a nice man with two dogs and a cool kid.

Besides, Greg isn’t actually a dog person.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! _so_. this is it, the first part of the series d o n e, and oh boy, did we have a journey. :') the first 100k took me a good six months, which is not bad, because I'm usually very bad at finishing anything. but here it is. if I did chapter names, this would be "soft", and nothing else. enjoy <3 x

Three seventeen years old boys went missing from school on Tuesday, and two of them are found dead in a hotel room on Thursday. It’s polling day, but for the time being, the election isn’t on the front of Greg’s mind; there are traces of marijuana and flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol, also known as the date rape drug, found in the bodies, but the cause of death is not drug related.

“They’ve been suffocated to death,” says Molly. The bodies have been brought in earlier today, before it was known they have been killed, not just over-dozed.

“Kids these days, eh,” Greg says. Molly’s rapidly changing expression tells him it has not been a good joke. But sometimes joking is the only way to cope with two teenagers laying dead under the sheets. Kids are always hard, just because they’re kids. And kids killing other kids, that’s just horrible.

“There was remains of tape on both of their necks,” Molly says, pointing at the other boy’s neck. Greg gets closer to see: there is a slightly red mark on the skin there, it looks like a rash. He’s seen similar marks before on victims who have been suffocated with a plastic bag taped over the face. It probably says something about humanity that it’s so usual the markings are so recognisable.

It’s a horrible thought to think about the kids being killed by that. It’s possible that, when killed with that method, the victims know they’re about to die; it takes some time for humans to loose consciousness. Greg hopes the boys have been so drugged up they haven’t been awake when they’ve been killed.

“Have you found the third one yet?” Molly asks.

“No,” Greg answers. “The hotel staff hadn’t seen him, but he must have been there.”

“You think he killed them?”

“It seems the most obvious explanation, don’t you think?” Greg says.

Molly’s brows are knitted. “I don’t know,” she says. “Seems a bit harsh for a seventeen-year-old to do that,” she says, gesturing towards the bodies.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “But you never know. If they’ve been intoxicated enough, who knows what have happened.”

“Hopefully you’ll find him soon,” Molly says. “Alive, I mean.”

“I hope so, too,” Greg says. He really does hope, but hope doesn’t mean it will happen. He doesn’t want to say that to Molly, though, even if she probably knew it already. In their lines of works, death is unavoidable factor to consider. And when it comes to missing persons, the longer it takes to find them, the possibility to find them alive gets smaller every day. It has only been a couple of days, but two of the three have already been found dead. It doesn’t seem too good.

“Have you heard anything about Mary?” Molly asks after a moment of silence.

“No,” Greg says, feeling a sting of regret. He hasn’t really thought about Mary or John for some time. With his job and the case on the side, there hasn’t been a lot of time for anything else than sleep.

“Me neither,” Molly says. “I’ve been offering help with Rosie but John’s awfully stubborn about it.”

“Well, knowing John, I’m not surprised.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t need the help,” Molly says shrugging.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Maybe he needs a bit of nagging.”

“I hope,” Molly says. “And how’re you?”

“Fine,” Greg says, very quickly, which only makes her look at him with her eyebrows raised. “Busy,” Greg adds.

“Aren’t you always?” Molly asks.

“I guess,” Greg says, “but so that you know, I did actually have a three days weekend a short time ago.” The best lies have some truths in them, and Molly doesn’t have to know he spent those three days investigating a serial killer case.

“That’s something,” Molly says, and maybe there is a hint of suspicion in her voice, but Greg decides it’s best to ignore it. “Do you have some time off this weekend?”

“Yes, I do, actually.” Greg says. “I’m going to visit my mother for a day or two,” he adds. Again, Molly doesn’t have to know he’s going to meet with Edward Carter before. And since Molly looks impressed by his free time activities, he thinks it’s best to leave it there and not let her ask any follow-up questions. “Anyway, thanks for this.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Molly says smiling.

“Still,” Greg says. “See you around.”

“Have fun at your mum’s,” Molly says.

Walking back to his car, Greg wonders how easily he lies these days. All those crime shows make it seem so easy when the main characters goes around doing their own thing and keeping it a secret from anyone else. Greg hates to be the main character. By the end of this, he’s probably going to loose the trust of all his friends if he keeps on lying like this.

Gosh, he hopes the meeting with Edward Carter will be helpful.

  
  


*

  
  


Greg parks his car in front of an old house near the York University campus. It’s a convenient place to live for a University professor _and_ it’s a nice looking house. Edward Carter had suggested their meeting to be held at the University, but since Greg could only come on Friday afternoon, Edward Carter’s home had seemed the more logical place. It’s both good and bad. People’s houses tend to make them more relaxed and calmer, but sometimes it makes lying easier when the surrounding is safe and familiar. But for what it’s worth, Greg wants to see the attic Mycroft had told Anthea had seen. Greg checks the address again, just to make sure he’s at the right house, and when he’s confident it’s the right one, he goes to the door and presses the doorbell. He can hear a dog barking inside, and a man’s voice commanding the dog to stay put before the door opens. The man standing there is pretty much what Greg has been expecting. He has done his homework, and he’s seen Carter’s driver’s licence, so the face isn’t completely strange to him. He’s wearing glasses and a bright smile on his face, and a brown tweed vest that seems to be in perfect unity with the old house and the yapping, scruffy-looking Parson Russell Terrier.

“I’m looking for Edward Carter,” Greg says, mostly to be polite.

“You’re in the right place, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume,” Edward Carter says. “Come on in. Don’t mind Alfie here, he’ll befriend you in a few seconds if you don’t give him any attention.”

Greg does just that and after a moment the dog is sniffing Greg’s calves. Edward Carter leads Greg into the living room. They sit down. Greg doesn’t take his jacket off, it’s a half-conscious way to keep casual Greg separated from DI Lestrade. Even if he believes Edward Carter doesn’t need to feel intimidated to talk, Greg _is_ working. Carter asks if Greg would like something to drink, which Greg declines. He takes out his phone and a notepad.

“Is it alright if I record this?” Greg asks, nodding towards his phone.

“Of course,” Edward Carter says right away. Greg opens the recording app and presses play. For a second or two who looks at the running numbers to make sure it’s working before starting.

“So, Mr Carter—” is all he gets out before Edward Carter interrupts him.

“Edward, please,” he says, then adds with a glint in his eyes: “I’m old, but not that old.”

“Right,” Greg says. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Edward says. “Ms Pond came around and told me about Ann-Janette. A horrible thing that was and my brother’s relationship with her had come up at some point.”

 _Ms Pond_ , Greg thinks, biting down to his tongue to keep himself from grinning. He needs to have words with Anthea.

“Did you know Ann-Janette?” Greg asks.

“I did, yes,” Edward says. “We were in contact for the past few years, since she came back to Britain. She found me, funny thing, Facebook.”

Greg frowns. Facebook? He thought they had checked that out and found out she didn’t have that. Or anything like that, the only not work or finance-related thing on her computer was the geocaching.

“Tell me about her,” Greg says. He turns the notepad towards himself so that Edward can’t see.

Edward lets out a humourless laugh. “What’s there to tell? She was nice, quiet. I knew a thing or two about her, Oliver was _smitten_ with her, couldn’t stop talking about her for a few months. Ann liked the outdoors, she liked that—what is it called—the city orienteering thing.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“A month or two ago,” Edward says. Greg notices that he doesn’t have to stop to think about anything he says. It isn’t suspicious, but maybe he’s guessed the things Greg would like to know.

“Was there anything weird about her then?” Greg asks. A bad question, but he couldn’t take it back now.

“No, not that I recall,” Edward says, brows knitted behind the rim of his glasses. “She was the same as always, we only had coffee when I was visiting London. For a class I’m holding,” he adds before Greg can ask.

“What did you teach again?” Greg asks. It’s not important, he’s just curious.

“Mainly sociology,” Edward answers. “But with some overlapping to psychology and criminology.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Sounds interesting.”

“I’d say so, too.”

“Did you know anyone else Ann-Janette was in contact with?” Greg asks.

“He had a boyfriend for a moment, Robert Thompson, last year. It was a brief thing, a few months. But nothing really aside from that. I think she wasn’t someone who’d make friends easily,” Edward says. “But then again, knowing her past, I don’t think it’s strange at all.”

“Meaning?”

Edward shifts, crosses his ankles. “When Oliver joined the SIS he promised us it wasn’t at all dangerous, and the things they did there weren’t exciting or anything like that. Then, a couple of years later he had a ‘work-related trip’ to God knows where, somewhere in South America I think. A few weeks later he was, at least in his words, in love. He wasn’t one to go head over heels over someone he’d just met. But there he was. And don’t get me wrong, I wholeheartedly think he _was_ in love with her, but the thing is that he must have been under some stress to fall for her that quickly.”

“So you don’t know what Oliver was doing at the time he met Ann-Janette?” Greg asks.

“No,” Edward says. “He rarely told me anything about his job. I knew bits and pieces he gave away, some fragments. He told me he couldn’t tell me even if he wanted to, which he did I think. But it was the Cold War, there were a lot of unsaid things then.”

Greg fights back the disappointment; he wants to hear some facts so badly he can almost taste it.

“Can you tell anything?” Greg asks, trying his luck.

Edward moistens his lips before starting. “The last mission he had in the USA was for the CIA. Not officially, I don’t think, but something like a co-mission between the USA and the UK. He never confirmed anything, but he was stationed in Washington.”

“Did you knew any of his workmates?” Greg asks, trying to mask the question to sound like a whim, like he’s not dying to hear the name Mark White—a verification all this is connected to the killings.

“No, sorry,” Edward says.

“How did Oliver die?” Greg asks boldly. He looks for Edward’s reactions to the question. Edward’s hand twitches, he doesn’t quite fist his hand but runs his fingers over his thumb. His friendly smile flatters a bit.

“He was shot. I don’t know where he was at the time it happened, but we heard about it on the 24th of October 1996.”

Greg puts the date down. Mark White’s accident on M4 happened the sixteenth of October the same year, but Oliver Carter’s family heard about his death a bit over a week later.

“We were told that he was killed in an ‘unfortunate accident’, but when we asked for an autopsy, they didn’t let us have one,” Edward says. Bitterness as thick as tar seeps through his words. However, Greg thinks he can hear the undertone of sadness behind the bitterness. It’s a common enough thing for him to notice.

“I’m just wondering,” Edward says, after a minute of silence. “Why the police are interested in this _now_? It was almost nineteen years ago, and not once has anyone been interested enough to start asking around.”

Greg bites his lip. Shit, he should have expected this. He knows he told Lotte the real story, but to be honest, he’s been regretting that.

“I’m investigating Ann-Janette Parker’s death,” Greg says, as he’s told Edward on the phone when they have planned the meeting. “And as you said, Ann-Janette and your brother’s relationship came up.”

“Are they connected?” Edward asks. It’s a fair question, Greg gives him that.

“I can’t really say,” Greg says, and it’s not a lie exactly.

“Of course,” Edward says and smiles again. “I’m sorry, it’s just, a lot. We were friends, me and Ann, and no one has been asking about Oliver for almost two decades. It’s a lot.”

“I understand,” Greg says. He decides it’s best to get the conversation onto some other topic. “I think, uh, Ms Pond saw some letters?”

“Ah, yes,” Edward says, standing up. “A nice lady. I thought she’d keep them longer but a man in a suit brought them back a day later.”

“She’s fast that way,” Greg says, mostly to himself. “Can I see them?” he asks.

“Sure,” Edward says. “I can bring them down—”

“I’d like to see myself,” Greg says, standing up himself. Edward doesn’t seem to be bothered by that, he gives a half-shrug and takes the lead.

The stairs to the attic are narrow and steep, just what to expect from an old house. But everything is renovated, painted and finished, only the structure is old, everything else is nicely kept and fixed. And the attic has nice lightning, everything is very clean. It’s more like a sitting room than an attic. It’s decorated, ornamented, it’s clearly a place that is in use.

Edward goes to a dresser, opens a door and gets out a neatly packed box.

“Here’s one,” Edward says, putting it on a table. Greg comes closer, on the lid of the box it says _1992–1994_.

“These are between Oliver and Ann-Janette, right?” Greg asks, pointing at the box.

“Yes,” Edward says. “After Oliver died, they delivered everything from his flat back to us. Our parents didn’t want anything to do with it, but I’ve kept it. I’ve—I’ve been waiting for someone to get interested in this.”

Greg opens the lid. Inside there are open envelopes, with apparently two addresses, one for Washington, D.C., one for Brasília. The letters are bundled together with a piece of string, dozen or so letters per a bundle, all in order from the earliest day to the latest.

“This is very organised,” Greg says, he hasn’t meant to say it out loud.

“I like it when things are organised,” Edward says matter-of-factly.

 _Obviously_ , Greg doesn’t say. Instead, he asks: “Could I have these for a day or two? I’d like to read them. I know my colleagues have had a look at them already, but you know, I’d like to do my own research.”

“Of course,” Edward says. “I haven’t read them much myself, so you can have them as long as you want.”

“Thanks,” Greg says, “that should help a lot. Do you have anything else you’d think could help?”

Edward narrows his eyes as he thinks. Then he turns back to the dresser and opens another drawer. He takes out another shoebox, opens it and pushes it towards Greg.

“Here’s some pictures and other stuff,” Edward says. Greg takes out a picture envelope that is full of slightly yellowing pictures. He takes the pictures out and looks them through. He can guess which one is Edward, his face hasn’t changed that much.

“That’s Oliver,” Edward says pointing at a picture; a young man with curly blonde hair and light denim jacket and jeans is smiling under a tree. Oliver is in most of the pictures, alone and with, presumably, his and Edward’s parents, with Edward, and some other people Greg doesn’t recognise. Until he gets to the last picture. In front of a classic American car stands Oliver Carter, his arm around another man’s shoulders. It’s Mark White.

“Do you know who this is?” Greg asks, trying to keep his voice steady so he won’t tell Edward _he_ knows who that is.

“It’s Jack, I think. Jack O’Hara or something,” Edward says. “A friend from school, if I recall right.”

“Right,” Greg says. He has thought Mark White used Jack O’Hara as an alias after 1996, not before. It sounds weird to him.

“Why?”

Greg continues to look through the photos. “Just wondering, it was a nice picture.”

Edward doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You can take the pictures too.”

“Could I?” Greg asks. He really wants to show the picture of Oliver Carter and Mark White to Mycroft. Greg can’t make anything of it, but knowing Mycroft he probably could.

“I just want…” Edward says, stops, take a breath and says: “Justice. I want justice. For Oliver. And answers.”

Greg can’t blame him. He wants answers, too.

“I think this”—he gestures towards the letters and the pictures—“will help my investigations a lot. That’s so much more than we’ve had before. You’ve been a great help.”

“Whatever I can do to help, I will,” Edward says earnestly. “And I hope you’ll catch whoever killed Ann-Janette.”

“I’ve got people working at it as we speak,” Greg says. Edward nods and then there is a weirdly charged silence. Greg believes that it’s a sign for him to get going.

“I think I’ve got everything I need. You’ve got my number, right,” Greg asks. Edward nods. “Call me, if you’ve got something on your mind.” Edward promises to do just that. They take a shoebox each and carry them downstairs. Greg turns towards the front door when Edward speaks.

“You aren’t going to drive all the way back to London, are you?” he asks.

“No,” Greg says. “My mother lives an hour away, she’ll have me hanged if I didn’t come visiting as I’m up here for once.”

“Right, right,” Edward says, clears his throat and smiles. “I mean, just, if you’re not up for the drive, I’ve got a spare blanket.”

It takes a long second for Greg to understand what Edward is actually asking. When he does, his mind goes blank for another long second for two reasons: first, when has been the last time a man has hit on him, and second, does he really need a straight-up question for him to realise he’s being hit on?

“Oh,” Greg says. “Uh, no, it’s alright. I wasn’t kidding about my mum, so.” He lets out a weird, nervous laugh. Jesus, when has him become a such an uncool man in front of harmless offers? Edward just shrugs.

“Alright,” he says, disregarding the whole thing with that. 

They say their goodbyes and Greg gets into his car. It takes a bit over an hour to get to his mother’s place, in which he uses the time to ponder what he has learned. The hour goes by quickly, but when Greg parks his car in front of his mother’s house, he isn’t much cleverer. It’s a mess inside his head, but he believes it’s a helpful mess. Once he has all the new information sorted out, it must help them to find something new, something they’ve missed before. He’s excited and only slightly frustrated; he has two boxes of letters and photographs he needs to look through, and the recording of their conversation, and he needs to get them sorted fast and alone.

  
  


Greg gets out of the car and without knocking, he goes inside. He has told his mother he’s coming, and he knows she’s been waiting for him probably since she has woken up.

“What took you so long?” his mother asks when she comes to greet him.

“It’s work,” Greg says, “it doesn’t look at the clock.”

“Neither do you,” she says. “Nor the calendar.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

She only laughs. She looks younger when she laughs, and the sounds and the sight make Greg smile too.

“Off with your jacket and shoes, I’ve got food ready for ye,” she says.

“I’ll be just a minute, I need to make a phone call real quick,” Greg says, already taking out his phone.

“Well, make it quick, then,” her mother says. “I’m not going to heat the potatoes again if you’re going to blabber around for an hour.”

“Won’t take long,” Greg says and goes right back outside. Knowing Mycroft they won’t be talking about anything case related on the phone, but Greg still doesn’t want to make the call in front of his mother.

On the front porch, Greg lights up a cigarette and presses the call button. Mycroft is not answering, Greg listens to a dozen beeps until he gives up. And just when he’s about to pocket his phone, it rings with an incoming call from Mycroft.

“Hello,” Greg says, then adds: “You didn’t have to call me back if it was a bad time.”

“ _It’s fine_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _I needed the break. How was the meeting with Edward Carter?_ ”

Greg finds it somehow relieving Mycroft sounds almost as impatient to hear the news as Greg is to tell them.

“Compared to Lotte Jones, a lot better,” Greg says.

“ _That’s good_.”

“Yeah. He sounded like a nice enough lad, and it seems like he’s been waiting for the police to get involved with his brother’s death,” Greg tells Mycroft. He gives him a vague run-through of his and Edward’s conversation.

“ _Did he knew Parker?_ ” Mycroft asks.

“He did,” Greg says. “He and Ann-Janette were friends apparently, the last time they met was a couple of months ago.”

“ _Were they lovers?_ ”

“Erm, I don’t think so,” Greg says, but he doesn’t want to tell Mycroft about the invite to stay the night. Not because he thinks Mycroft wouldn’t approve—Greg believes he can deduce some things himself—but the whole thing makes Greg feel a bit embarrassed. He should probably be flattered, it’s not everyday he gets that straight forward offers. 

To change the subject, Greg says: “But he was able to tell me that Ann-Janette Parker used to date this one bloke, Robert something, I have the name written down so I, or we, can check it out later. And Edward could tell me something about the thing was that Mark White, Oliver Carter and the third man were doing at the time. I also got some photographs to go through, Edward has a lot of those. I got the impression they used to be very close, Edward and Oliver I mean.” He doesn’t go into details, he knows Mycroft won’t like to talk about it on the phone.

“ _That’s something_ ,” Mycroft says, he sounds pleased.

“Yeah,” Greg replies because it _is_ something. “A lot more than before.”

“ _Yes. When will you be back?_ ” Mycroft asks, and not surprisingly adds: “ _I’d like to discuss this somewhere other than on phone._ ”

“Dunno, maybe Sunday,” Greg says. “Knowing Mum, she won’t let me go before she has to.”

“ _So next week, then,_ ” Mycroft says. “ _Wednesday seems to be the earliest I can meet you at a reasonable hour._ ”

“I think that’ll do,” Greg says. He takes the last drag out of his cigarette and like a bloody teenager, he hides the butt into the closest flower pot. As if his mother didn’t know. “How’s the post-election world?”

Mycroft lets out a noise that could be either a sigh or a grunt. “ _Ghastly._ ”

“That good, eh?” Greg asks.

“ _It’s a mess_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _People shouldn’t be this surprised about the outcome._ ”

“You don’t seem happy with it,” Greg says.

“ _I’m not_ ,” Mycroft says, “ _but that’s democracy for you, sometimes it’s… shit._ ”

Greg’s happy he’s not smoking any more, because hearing Mycroft use a cuss word makes him choke on his tongue.

“Christ,” Greg says, laughing. “It must be bad if it makes _you_ curse.”

“ _You’re exaggerating,_ ” Mycroft says, but Greg can almost hear his amusement over the call.

“I really am not,” Greg says. “I’ve been waiting for this. You have no idea.”

“ _I believe I’m starting to have some idea_.”

“Is it that bad, though?” Greg asks.

“ _It depends on the scale of things. Is it the worst possible outcome? Not even close. But is it irritating? God, yes._ ” Mycroft sounds tired, it makes Greg feel sorry for him.

“It’ll get better after some time, right? Once everyone’s settled and stuff.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _It’s just—_ people _. There is always someone who doesn’t like anything and who won’t listen to reasoning. Every parliament has those people. They complicate things and complications are not something a newly elected parliament needs._ ”

“It’s been like a day,” Greg says. “Is there complications already?”

Mycroft lets out a slight laugh. “ _Ah, no. But one does not have to be a seer to be able to predict those._ ”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Greg says, grinning by himself like a fool. “You are a seer of sorts. Do you need to even speak to people to know who’s trouble and who’s not?”

Mycroft stays quiet for a moment. “ _Usually, no._ ”

“So why aren’t you in politics then?” Greg asks. It has been in his mind for some time already.

“ _I like to operate behind the scenes, so to speak_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _The fewer people I need to deal with, the better._ ”

“So you’re like a puppet master? Running the country from behind the curtains.”

“ _I don’t run the country_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Some people seem to think so,” Greg says. “You know, I talk to John.”

“ _About me?_ ” Mycroft asks dryly.

“Among other things,” Greg admits. “Mostly about Sherlock. But you know, can’t have one without the other. Your what-ever-job has come out a few times,” he says. _A few_ is underselling it, but Mycroft doesn’t have to know that.

“ _Have you heard anything about Mrs Watson?_ ” Mycroft asks out of the blue, surprising Greg.

“No,” he says. “Why? Have you?”

“ _No_ ,” Mycroft says, “ _I just thought you might have because you care about that sort of things_.”

“How can you make it sound like it’s a bad thing every time?”

“ _It’s not a bad thing_ ,” Mycroft says. Greg can almost see his expression, the slightly creased forehead, not quite a confusion but not quite _not_.

“Alright,” Greg says, he’s mostly teasing anyway. He can see his mother behind the window, looking at him with an impatient expression. “I think I need to go. My mum needs to smother me for a couple of days, better get on with it as soon as possible.”

“ _That is very mother-like_ ,” Mycroft says. “ _Someone could say our mother spoils us whenever Sherlock and I are on reach._ ”

“I’m still having a hard time figuring out what your parents must be like, raising you two,” Greg says. He almost says he would like to meet them, but bites it down before he can.

“ _You’d probably be surprised how ordinary they can be_ ,” Mycroft says. His tone doesn’t indicate anything much, but Greg bets he could get out fondness if he really wanted to push. Which he kind of wants to do.

Greg can hear a tapping noise as his mother is knocking her knuckles at the kitchen window, nodding towards the food. Greg is almost fifty and yet still his mother acts just so motherly. It’s a comforting thing.

“I really need to go before she’ll put me in a house arrest,” Greg says.

“ _I’ll see you on Wednesday_ ,” Mycroft says.

“Yeah, see you on Wednesday,” Greg says. “Bye.”

“ _Goodbye._ ”

Greg ends the call and turns to go inside. He kicks his shoes off next to the front door and goes to the kitchen.

“Who was that?” Mum asks. Greg knows that tone, she pretends to do something else, but her head’s not at it, not really.

Greg almost answers with _a mate from work_ , but that’s not right. _A friend_ would not work either, that’ll only make his mother ask more questions, she would think he’s hiding something if he told her it was _a friend_. Greg settles on at: “Mycroft.”

“Funny name,” his mum says.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Who’s Mycroft then?”

Greg makes a vague hand gesture as he searches for the right words. “He’s Sherlock’s brother,” he says.

“Sherlock Holmes’s?” Mum asks.

“Yes, I don’t know that many Sherlocks, do I?” Greg says. “So, what are you going to feed me, then?” It’s a cheap trick to change the subject, but Greg doesn’t have the energy to go into his and Mycroft’s on or off duty titles.

After that, they talk about normal things, nothing work nor Holmer related which is fine by Greg. It’s a chance he hasn’t realised he has needed. His mum tells him about Easter and how Maggie, Bill and the twins are doing, the newest gossip from the neighbourhood about people he knows he should know but whose names don’t connect with any faces. Greg tells her about Ellie’s birthday and his trip to the Netherlands. He leaves all the work stuff out, which doesn’t let much of a tale, but it seems to be enough for his mother. She’s nice enough to ask about Greg’s other friends, she asks about Sherlock and John and Greg tells her what he can. They eat and watch Emmerdale reruns. It’s a good thing his mother likes to talk about her shows because Greg has no idea who’s who in the show and what have been happening.

Later, when she’s gone to bed after some tea and the _Ten O’clock News_ , Greg goes back to his car to get the shoeboxes. He carries them to the guest room he’s sleeping in, but the long day and the quiet night with Mum has done its deed. He leaves the boxes closed and gets to bed.

  
  


  
  


The next morning Greg wakes up to the smell of coffee, and hell if he hasn’t missed that. It’s such a Sunday, with the rainy grey weather and the TV showing Hobly City with so low volume it’s almost silent.

“Are you in a hurry?” is the first thing his mother says to him as he comes to the kitchen.

“Good morning to you too,” Greg says, takes a coffee cup out of the cupboard and pours coffee in. “And I’m not. Why?”

“Maggie has had a night shift last night but she’d like to see you before you go,” Mum says. With a smirk, she adds: “Since you forgot Easter.”

Greg just snorts, not bothering to answer. At this rate, he’ll never hear the end of it, at least not until he fucks something else up. It’s fine, he knows his mother nags about it because she cares, and Greg knows that forgetting about Easter hasn’t been that big of a deal, but he also knows that they haven’t got infinitive time. His mother isn’t getting any younger, and life is unexpected either way. They’ve all been shaken up by his father’s unexpected and sudden death, and those kinds of things don’t just go away.

“I’ve got time,” Greg says. “But I do have some work things I need to do today, I don’t think I’ll have any other time to do it.”

In the television dramatic CPR is being performed with the bending elbows and all. It’s Maggie’s favourite thing to point out all the mistakes in medical shows, but Greg doesn’t have to be a doctor or a nurse to know that the CPR is as fake as it gets, but at least it’s nothing compared to the six-month-old newborns they use in TV.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” his mother says. “But first, breakfast.”

  
  


After breakfast and some more Hobly City, Greg gets to work with the letters and the photographs. He starts with the letters. They are in such good shape and order that it’s almost fun to go through them. It is, as he has expected, nothing very interesting. Love letters never are. Some are sappy and some of them are so explicit it almost makes Greg feel like he’s doing something forbidden reading them in his mother’s house. But in terms of investigations, they’re nothing interesting, but Greg hasn’t thought that; if Mycroft had already read them and he hadn’t noticed anything remarkable, neither would Greg. But they do help him make an image of Oliver Carter and Ann-Janette Parker, at least an image what they were in the nineties.

The photos, however, are a whole other thing. There is the one with Oliver Carter and Mark White, but that is not the most interesting one. Going further, Greg comes across a picture that has five people in it. It’s a candid shot, no one is looking at the camera, but everyone has their faces showing. Greg recognises Oliver, Edward and Mark White, the third man is unfamiliar, but the woman is quite clearly Ann-Janette Parker. A date is written on the back of the photograph, it says 1993. Greg frowns. He has thought Oliver and Ann-Janette hadn’t met each other more than once in Puerto Rico in 1992. A picture with both of them, Mark White, Edward and some other lad in 1993 is, in the lack of a better word, interesting. If Greg has to guess, he would say the third man in the picture is the one that died with Oliver Carter three years after the picture was taken. But the question is: Who has taken the picture?

When Greg has gone through all the pictures, he has three piles of them. One has photos he doesn’t need for anything. One has photos he wants to have copies of, mostly because the faces are very easily recognisable in them. The last pile he calls the VIP pile. Those pictures have clues and dates in them that Greg knows will be useful.

It has taken him longer to go through all of the letters and the photos than he has thought; when he’s done, Maggie and Bill are already there, having coffee at the kitchen table.

“How is it possible you have any social life at all?” Maggie asks when Greg joins them in the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” Greg asks pouring himself a coffee.

“Did you have voice cancelling headphones on or what? I thought we were noisy,” Maggie says.

“You weren’t,” Greg says, although they probably were. “Where’s Mum?”

“She went to get more potatoes,” Maggie says grinning. “That’s almost as surprising than your inability to focus on more than one thing at a time. What were you doing anyway?”

“It’s a case,” Greg says, and the almost identical expression on both Maggie’s and Bill’s faces tell that much has been obvious. “It’s a big case,” he elaborates, “I got some evidence yesterday, I was going through it.”

“And why can’t you do that at, I don’t know, _work_?” Maggie asks.

“Because it’s not for the Met,” Greg says, trying really hard to make it sound like it’s no big deal. It’s both curse and a blessing Maggie has this effect on him. He’ll probably tell her anything if she just asked the right questions. And usually, she does.

“Who is it?” Bill asks.

Greg wonders for a moment how risky it would be to tell the closest thing to the truth. Maggie and Bill won’t tell anyone, most importantly, they won’t tell Mum.

“MI6,” Greg tells them.

“The what now?” Maggie blurs.

“You heard me,” Greg says. “It’s nothing exciting,” he lies.

“Do you lot work often together?” Bill asks.

“It’s not like that,” Greg says. “I know someone who works there and they needed help. I could help, so I’m doing just that.”

“Jesus,” Maggie says. “Alright. Sounds… not like you.”

“Thanks,” Greg says dryly, even though he knows what she means. It really doesn’t sound like him at all.

“Who’s London otherwise?” Maggie asks, and after that Greg has almost the same conversation with Maggie that he has had with their mother the day before. He doesn’t mind it, it’s normal and safe and it takes his mind off the case for some time.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. Their mother comes back from the shops, and they make food and have a late lunch. It’s a nice, normal Sunday, and it’s a bit hard for Greg to leave.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


On Wednesday, it has been one week and a day since the teenagers went missing, and five days since two of them were found. They still don’t know what happened to the third one, or who killed the two others. Greg has been investigating another case for two days. A woman was found dead in her home, and her husband has been missing ever since. It’s pretty straight forward, they have been searching for the husband ever since, but he’s been very quiet and no one has seen or heard of him ever since.

The third teenager comes to the station himself at eleven AM. Alive, sober by the looks of him, but looking like hell. Someone has already done a drug test to him, now they’re only waiting for the results. And the parents. Kids are always hard because dealing with them means dealing with at least one other person, too, since the guardians are always involved. And now they have seventeen years old teen in their hands.

“Do you want it, sir?” PC Williams asks Greg, pointing over his shoulder towards the boy sitting there on the corridor. His parents have been called already.

“No,” Greg admits. “But I guess I don’t have any other options.”

“Well,” Williams says, “we could ask the Chef, but she’s not very good with kids.”

“Yeah,” Greg mutters. “Shit, I’ll take it. Could you go upstairs and ask Sergeant Donovan if she could join me in the interrogation room three in five minutes?”

“You do know you can’t hear him yet?” Williams asks.

“Yes, but I can talk to him,” Greg says.

“Right. Donovan, was it?” Williams asks, already turning towards the lift.

Greg goes to the front desk, asks if he could see the boy’s information, and with the half-empty file, he goes to sit next to the lad.

“So, Christian,” Greg says, eyeing the file. “You up for a chat?”

Christian turns to look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, but it’s hard to say if it’s because of tiredness or drugs or a bit of both.

“You can’t hear me yet,” Christian says. “I heard you.”

“If you did, you also heard that I’d like to chat with you. So, if you may,” Greg says, stands up and waves for him to follow. They go to the interrogation room three, and Greg makes sure the door is left open. He puts on all the lights, just so the room doesn’t look so intimidating.

“There is a security camera on that corner there,” Greg says, pointing at it. “And the door is open.”

“Why?” Christian asks, slumping on the chair. “You think I’m gonna jump you?”

“No,” Greg says slowly. “Just so you know we’re going to only chat for a bit while we wait for your parents.”

“Right,” Christian says.

It doesn’t take Sally five minutes to join them. She doesn’t come in, only stands on the doorway.

“You guys want anything? Coffee, tea? We’ve got a vending machine downstairs, I could go get a soda or something?” she asks. Greg shakes his head, but Christian grunts.

“I would kill for a fag.”

“Sorry, mate,” Sally says, gives Christian a short smile. “We don’t smoke here.”

“So why does he reek of cigs?” Christian glances at Greg. Greg has to really try not to smell his clothes.

“Because he’s a stupid man with bad habits,” Sally says. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“I don’t know, a water,” Christian says. “Why are we sitting here?”

“To chat,” Greg says.

“About?”

“Whatever you want to chat. You came to us, didn’t you?”

Christian shrugs. “Yeah. Heard you lot were looking for me so I’d make it easy for you.”

“Who told you that?” Greg asks.

“Facebook,” Christian snorts. “Mum’s got a whole post about me going around.”

“That’s nice,” Sally says.

“Yeah,” Christian says, stretching the vowels. “Nicest thing she’s done in a long time.”

This is why they are having a chat now. Kids just don’t go missing and have drugs in or on them if there was everything alright at home. Obviously, there are anomalies, but most times there are not. It hasn’t been a surprise to learn Christian’s dad is not around and his mum has a criminal record. Sally leaves to get the water, leaving Greg and Christian alone.

“Do you know what happened to Jacob and Hayden?” Greg asks.

Christian turns to look at him, his already pale face going even whiter. “No. I haven’t heard of them since last week.”

“They’re dead, Christian,” Greg says as softly as possible.

A small, hysteric laugh is all that comes out of Christian’s mouth at first. “No, they aren’t _dead_.”

“They are,” Greg says. “Someone found them in a hotel room last Thursday. They were suffocated.”

Christian looks at him with his eyes wide, his irises moving rapidly as he looks at Greg.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I was,” Greg says, and fuck if that wasn’t the truth. “Did you see them after you left school on Tuesday?”

Christian doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says finally, it’s barely a whisper. “I had some grass with me, like ten grams or summat, we shared that and went to a party in Chelsea. I don’t know where they went after that, we were pretty fucked.”

Sally comes back with the water, and as she places it on the table, she says: “Your mum’s here.”

Christian doesn’t turn to look at Sally. “Right.”

“I’m gonna get her and then we’ll starts, alright?” Sally asks, she looks at Greg when she talks. Greg nods and takes a look at the clock. He has received a message from Mycroft that morning, asking if he’s free at lunch. Greg has decided he is, although he hasn’t been sure, he feels like he’s been on his tiptoes with everything he has learned from the meeting with Edward a few days ago. Now lunchtime is nearing rapidly, and Greg has to decide which one he wants to do. He could text Mycroft and say something has come up, and maybe they could meet after work, whenever that might be for either one of them. Or he could ask if Sally wants to do the interview. She could do it, Greg knows she’s good at it, probably even better with kids than Greg, but there is a side of Greg that wants to do his job.

When Sally comes back with Christian’s mother, they give them a couple of minutes to catch up and leave them alone in the room. Greg looks at the clock again.

“Have you got somewhere to be?” Sally asks.

Greg decides on that moment what he wants to do.

“Actually, I do,” he says. It’s easier to say than he has expected. “I won’t be long, probably, but could you do the interview?”

“Sure,” Sally says right away.

“Thank you,” Greg says. “I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” Sally says, smiles and then shoos Greg to go.

Greg goes first to his office and takes out a binder he has full up throughout the few days. He has already made sure that the boxes have been sent back to Edward’s home address. However, before he did that, he took copies of some photos; the ones with Mark White, some with other people he hasn’t recognised and whose names haven’t been written at the back of the photographs, and one with only Oliver.

Greg takes a cab from the Scotland Yard to Mycroft’s office at Whitehall. He manages to navigate himself behind the right door a few minuter earlier than was planned, and just when he’s about to knock on the door, it opens and it’s the wrong Holmes.

“Are you lost?” Sherlock asks with his eyebrows so high up Greg is afraid they might go right over Sherlock’s forehead.

“No,” Greg says at the same time as Mycroft says: “Let him in, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, just looks at Greg.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s annoyed voice says.

Sherlock moves away and lets Greg into the room.

“Why is Lestr—” Sherlock starts, but stops, narrows his eyes and doesn’t continue.

“Yes?” Greg asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, even though everything about him screams _something_. Greg isn’t exactly sure if it’s a good thing Sherlock doesn't want to say, or should Greg be very worried.

“You can go now, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, crossing his hands on the desk.

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “I’ll leave you two to whatever it is you two do.”

“Please do,” Mycroft says, and by some miracle, Sherlock does. On his way out of the office, he doesn’t as much as look at Greg, which, yes, makes Greg worry a bit. When Greg’s sure Sherlock’s gone, he moves towards the desk, hands the binder to Mycroft and sits down.

“What was that all about?” Greg asks, nodding towards the door Sherlock has closed behind him.

“Sherlock’s worried about Mrs Watson,” Mycroft says, opens the binder and takes the copies of the photographs on the desk. “He’s been tracking her.”

“Where is she?”

Mycroft doesn’t look at from the photos. “Norway.”

“Norway?”

“Yes, Norway, it’s a kingdom in Northern Europe, a founding member of the UN and the NATO, it shares borders with Sweden, Finland and Russia, and claims, for example, the archipelago of Svalbard,” Mycroft says, looking up at Greg.

“Funny,” Greg says dryly, he’s not sure if Mycroft is kidding or not. “Is she alright?”

“She’s moving, so it’s safe to assume she is,” Mycroft says. Then he points a finger on the photos. “What are these?”

“Photographs from Edward Carter’s attic,” Greg says. “Though, an attic is a weird word to use, or his attic is the cleanest IKEA attic I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, Anthea said something similar,” Mycroft says. “You don’t suppose he’s just a neat person?”

“Oh, I bet he is,” Greg says. “Probably a bit obsessive-compulsive if I had to guess.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft says.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Details are always interesting. So why these pictures?”

Greg leans in on his chair and reaches for the picture with Oliver Carter and Mark White. He puts it on the top.

“I see,” Mycroft says. “That’s Mark White.”

“Yeah. Only Edward said it’s Jack O’Hara. Which, by my understanding, was the alias he used _after_ Oliver’s death.”

“It could be possible he used the name before,” Mycroft says.

“Could be, yeah,” Greg agrees. “Just struck me as odd, that all. Edward said he didn’t know who Oliver was working with at the time of his death, and I believe him. I don’t think he lied to me,” Greg says. “Or he is a really good liar.”

“What does your intuition say?” Mycroft asks.

Greg shrugs. “That he wasn’t lying.”

“Let’s go with that, then,” Mycroft says.

“Then there’s this one,” Greg says and finds the photograph with Oliver and Edward Carter, Mark White, Ann-Janette Parker and the one other man in it. Mycroft looks at it for a long time.

“It said 1993 in the back,” Greg says. Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yep,” Greg says.

Mycroft is quiet for a long time, he looks at the photos, runs his thumb over his lips, brows knitted. Greg waits patiently. He would love to see inside Mycroft’s mind, just a glimpse of what he sees in the photos and how everything Greg has told comes together in his thoughts.

And maybe Greg has expected something grand, because when Mycroft finally speaks, Greg is a bit disappointed he hasn’t got an answer for everything yet.

“Are you sure you didn’t misread the year?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes,” Greg says, he feels almost hurt.

“Alright,” Mycroft says, and turns back to the photos.

Greg takes a moment before he opens his mouth again.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you saw things yourself and didn’t have to rely on other people’s intuitions and memories?” he asks.

“Easier, yes,” Mycroft says straight away. “But I don’t have the time nor the enthusiastic to go myself.”

“Why?”

Mycroft almost smiles. “I think I wouldn’t be much use in the field, so to speak. I lack the necessary abilities to do well with other people.”

Greg snorts. “And your job now doesn’t involve other people?”

“It does,” Mycroft says, “but I don’t have to do well with them.”

“Right,” Greg says. “Anyway, if it turns out he lied to me, you can’t blame me.”

“I won’t,” Mycroft promises. “But I don’t think we’ll come to that. What else he had to say?”

Greg tells what they’ve been discussing with Edward, about Ann-Janette and Oliver.

“I looked up the boyfriend, Robert Thompson,” Greg says. “Nothing interesting. Forty-three years old, drives a 2014 Mercedes Benz and lives in a one-room flat just outside London.”

“Is that supposed to be a remarkable contrast?” Mycroft asks.

“Kinda,” Greg says. “Only, it isn’t much of a surprise that a man has a flashier car than a house, but a 25-thousand car and tiny flat just is a bit camp.”

“I have to take your word on it,” Mycroft says.

Greg grins. “That’s a first.”

“Did you contact this Robert Thompson?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “He told pretty much the same things Edward did. Parker was quiet and liked to keep to herself. Apparently, that was the reason they broke up after just a couple of months.”

“Had he heard about her death?”

“Nope,” Greg says, grimacing. “Not the nicest phone call.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mycroft says. “Was there anything else strange or unordinary apart from Carter’s cleanness?”

“No, not really”, Greg says, without adding: apart from the offer to stay the night. “Perhaps he was a bit over the top when it comes to his brother, but then again, he did die young in mysterious circumstances, that much leave some scars.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees, but his mind doesn’t seem to be on it.

“Do you think the fourth man in the picture with Carters, White and Parker is the third agent?” Greg asks.

“I think so, yes,” Mycroft says. “Proving it would be hard.”

“Right,” Greg says.

“But more interesting than that is, why are all of those people in the same picture taken in 1993,” Mycroft says. “And why any of this hasn’t come up before. This,” Mycroft says, tapping a finger over the photo, “is a connection. A proper link between Mark White and Ann-Janette Parker.”

“And someone must have taken the picture,” Greg says. “Is it possible it could have been someone else who has been killed? Charlie Jones, maybe? Or the killer.”

“Edward Carter could know,” Mycroft says. “These were his pictures, weren’t they?”

“I’ll ask him,” Greg says.

“This could be it,” Mycroft says, carefully.

“Fuck, I hope so.” Greg looks at the time and sighs. “I should go, I left Sally alone to do an interview, and I should actually get some lunch.”

Mycroft gathers all the photos back into the binder and hands it over to Greg.

“I’ll call Edward today,” Greg says.

“Call me if something comes up,” Mycroft says.

“You won’t be too busy?” Greg asks, already standing up.

“Not for this,” Mycroft says. “Good luck.”

*

It’s a long Wednesday. Sally has done the interview with Christian and his mother, but Christian’s drug test has come back positive. It complicates things, but Sally thinks Christian hasn’t lied even if he was high, but they can’t rely on everything he has said. The only thing they can believe is that Christian has been intoxicated for most of the week, and doesn’t remember everything that has happened to him.

Kids are hard. Drugs make things even hard.

And when Greg tries to call Edward Carter about the photograph, he doesn’t answer his phone. Greg tries to call Lotte Jones, too, but she doesn’t answer either. It was a long-shot either way, the picture was taken five years before Lotte even met Charlie.

  
  


When Greg finally gets home, it’s late. He’s hungry and tired and pissed at things idling on standstill. Greg’s floor is empty and dim, but a second before he puts the key into the keyhole, he notices something is not right—the door is not locked. It’s slightly ajar, the latch bolt is not in the hole, but balanced on the strike plate. Greg’s pulse raises and all the earlier weariness is gone in a heartbeat.

He has two options: he could either call for backup, get someone there in a few minutes so he doesn’t have to be alone, or he could go in. The policeman in him tries to reason with backup, but then he hears a noise coming inside his apartment. With his phone on the other hand, Greg leans closer to the door to hear better, but maybe he leans too far or the gravity just isn’t on his side, the door opens just a little bit and there is a rattling bang as something heavy hits the floor.

“Fuck,” Greg whispers out loud, wishes he’s not going to do a big mistake, and pushed the door open.

The bang was made by a crowbar. Otherwise, the hallway looks normal, nothing seems to be amiss, which only makes Greg even more worried. He knows that whoever is there, has heard him, and Greg isn’t sure who benefits from it the most. Greg crouches down and picks up the crowbar as quietly as he can. A fleeting thought comes to his mind; what if it’s Sherlock. Wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock was breaking into his home. Only Sherlock wouldn’t be this woolly. Sherlock would be sitting in the living room like it was every day he hung out there all on his own. And talking about the living room, Greg can hear a noise coming from there. He moves closer, grasping the crowbar, ready to raise it. He holds his breath, moves closer.

Someone in all blacks rushes towards Greg, and by instinct, Greg _dodges_. He can hear the door slamming close as the man, suggesting by their height and build, runs away.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” he grunts, drops everything from his hands and runs after the man. He doesn’t have time to check what the intruder has been doing there, but that’s not important. Greg runs into the staircase, he has been living there long enough to know the length and distance of the stairs, it makes it easier to run them, and he sees the man turning right on the street. There is a parking garage down the street, and intuition makes Greg turn that way. He curses the darkness, and for a fleeting second, he plans on calling for back up.

Only that he doesn’t have his phone on him. Greg almost stops at the garage entrance when the realisation hits; he has dropped the crowbar _and_ his phone on his living room floor.

He should back down, let it go, it’s stupid and dangerous to follow it through, but he can hear a car alarm going off and combat boots hitting the concrete floor. He makes fast, impulsive decisions and before the exit of the parking garage, he reaches the man. Greg gets a hold of the back of his jacket and _yanks_.

He spins around, facing Greg. He’s wearing a balaclava, leather gloves and a black hooded jacket. For a split second their eyes meet, and before Greg can even think about drawing his badge and demand answers from the man in front of him, the man grabs Greg’s sleeves, turns his side and hips towards Greg, sweeps his leg between Greg’s and throws him off balance. Greg hits the floor and a soaring pain on his left side makes his focus falter—he can hear footsteps but can’t think of anything to do. Falling down he has hit a concrete roadblock and it fucking _hurts_. As he stands up he can hear someone shouting, _Oi, mate, you alright there_ , which he waves off. Nothing seems to be broken and he’s not bleeding, that’s good, but he has lost the man. 

  
  


Fifteen minutes later he finds himself outside Mycroft’s door. He doesn’t even know if Mycroft’s home, but the dull ache on his side and the bitter taste of failure in his mouth make it hard to care. He knocks and waits and after a moment the door opens.

“Greg,” Mycroft says his name with surprise and concern in his voice. “Come in.”

Greg does. He starts to take off his coat but the motion makes him wince. He doesn’t have to look at Mycroft to know he has noticed.

“You’re hurt,” Mycroft says. Greg tries to laugh, to dismiss the whole bloody thing, but all that comes out of his mouth is a grunt.

“You should see the other guy,” Greg tries to joke. It doesn’t carry out as he has hoped; his voice is strangled and it reveals him even if his stiff movements were enough of a giveaway.

“Greg—”, Mycroft starts to say but Greg raises his hand to stop Mycroft from talking.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s just a bruise. Hurts like a motherfucker but it’s nothing a few painkillers won’t cure.”

“Have you taken any?” Mycroft asks, brows knitted in worry. Greg shakes his head but doesn’t tell Mycroft he has come straight there. He’s ashamed of that, of himself and how his first instinct has been Mycroft. Out of all the possible places he has chosen Mycroft’s, and he believes neither of them would know what to do with _that_.

“Come, I’ll get you some,” Mycroft says and leads Greg inside. In the kitchen Mycroft orders Greg to sit down on the stool and starts rampaging through shelves and cupboards. After a moment, Mycroft takes a glass, fills it with water from the tap and hands it over to Greg with two pills on the side.

“Thanks,” Greg mutters, takes the pills and drinks the glass empty.

“What happened?” Mycroft asks. He doesn’t sit down, only stands there looking at Greg.

Greg sighs, he wants to forget everything about it, it’s too harsh of a failure at the front of his mind.

“I think it’s safe to say our killer knows we’re onto him,” Greg says. He tells about the incident, wanting to leave his own stumbling out of it, but as Mycroft doesn’t show any judgment or such, it makes it easier for Greg to tell the whole story.

“He was at your apartment?” Mycroft asks.

“He’s been killing spooks,” Greg says. “Finding out where I live isn’t actually hard.”

Mycroft stays quiet. It’s a heavy silence.

“The good news is, this means we’re close _and_ he’s panicking,” Greg says. “Coming to my place was not very clever of him.”

“No,” is all Mycroft says.

Greg tries to shift on the stool but the movement makes him hiss in pain. He’s going to be stiff as a board tomorrow.

“Can I see?” Mycroft asks.

“It’s just a bruise,” Greg says again. He’s going to add _Don’t worry about it_ but Mycroft is quicker.

“Still.”

A second, two, three.

“Fine,” Greg mutters. He starts to unbutton his shirt, only to find out it’s also painful to move his left arm. He’s not sure if it’s radiating from his side or its own pain. Mycroft moves to his side of the island counter, and when Greg has gotten the buttons done, Mycroft grabs the hem of Greg’s undershirt and slowly rolls it up towards his armpit. Greg feels like a child sitting there with Mycroft hovering over him.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” Mycroft asks.

“No.”

“Then stop holding your breath.”

Greg lets out the breath he hasn’t realised he was holding, and at the same time Mycroft puts pressure on the bruise.

“Fu- _uck_ ,” Greg cries.

“Sorry,” Mycroft says quietly. “You sure it’s not broken?”

“Yes,” Greg says, losing the trail of his thought as Mycroft’s surprisingly warm fingertips don’t leave his skin. “I know what broken ribs feel like and it’s not it.”

“This is—” Mycroft starts, then stops, pressing his lips into a tight line.

“What?”

“ _This_ is why I don’t do field any more,” Mycroft says.

Without really thinking how it sounds, Greg says: “This is why I do.”

Mycroft looks at him.

“Rather me than others,” Greg explains. “I don’t like other people getting hurt.”

“Most people don’t,” Mycroft says almost softly, pulling Greg shirt back down.

“And I wasn’t on _the field_ , was I,” Greg says. “I was literally going home.” He starts to button his shirt but gives up halfway up. It fucking hurts to move his arm. He knows he looks messy compared to Mycroft, but he also feels messy.

“If it doesn’t feel safe to you to go home tonight, you can stay here if you want,” Mycroft says.

Greg smiles. “That’s kind, but I think it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, and fuck. Greg isn’t sure about anything, to be honest. He feels stupid and reckless and he should just go. He needs to get home, the front door might still be open and he needs to go see if anything was taken. It might help identify the killer, Greg knows all the reports and documents by heart by now, he should know what is missing if something is. He doesn’t think that man was waiting for him to come home so that he could kill him—Greg would be dead if that was it. Greg’s certain he was there to get something, it would have been too dangerous to go through all that trouble to only see what Greg’s got on him.

“Greg?” Mycroft asks, voice full of concern, he puts his hand on Greg’s forearm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fuck, sorry,” Greg mutters. “It’s been a long day,” he says. It’s not a lie, but it feels like one. He looks at Mycroft’s hand on his arm. Mycroft takes it away.

“You should stay,” Mycroft says with a small voice that doesn’t fit him at all.

“I think I left the front door open,” Greg says, and realises at the same time the words are out of his mouth, Mycroft, who doesn’t miss anything, must know by now Greg has come straight to him. If he does, he doesn’t show it, but Greg still feels embarrassed.

“At least let me take you home,” Mycroft insists.

“Fine,” Greg gives in.

  
  


Mycroft makes a short phone call, and after that, it doesn’t take more than five minutes for the car to arrive. The drive is silent, but it’s not heavy silence. It’s almost comforting, in a way that it feels hard to get out of the car when it stops in front of Greg’s building.

The front door isn’t open, but it is not locked either. It’s a small miracle it’s still there and it seems like no one has used the opportunity to go inside. They go in, and it feels weird. It’s the same apartment it has always been, nothing has changed, but somehow it feels different. It’s Mycroft who switches the lights on, and for a moment they just stand there, in his corridor before Greg moves.

His phone and the crowbar are laying on the living room floor beside the papers and documents Greg has scattered around the floor. Mycroft stays quiet, and Greg realises he’s frowning at the mess on the floor.

“That was there before,” Greg says, gesturing towards the papers. “It’s easier to keep things in order when I can see everything at once.”

“This is order?” Mycroft asks, and there might be a hint of amusement there. That’s good, it makes it less serious, less gloomy, less embarrassing for Greg.

“I think he was there to get something,” Greg says, maybe he’s said that out loud already, it’s hard to concentrate with everything that has been happening. He crouches, which is a bad idea even with the painkillers kicking in, and grunts. Feeling like a child, he shifts so he’s sitting on the floor. His phone’s notifications show two new messages and one phone call. He doesn’t bother to look at them, they can wait. It’s probably nothing more urgent than this.

Greg starts to go through everything on the floor, and after a minute, Mycroft joins him, kneeling on the floor and somehow he’s able to make look elegant. Even in Greg’s living room, which is probably the polar opposite of Mycroft’s living room. Greg hasn’t been very interested in making the room nice, exactly. It’s _enough_ for him, it has all the necessary things in it: a television, a sofa, and enough floor space for all the papers. Greg doesn’t ask if Mycroft knows what he’s doing, because it’s obvious he does. They go through everything in silence, until finally, Greg has to admit he can’t see anything missing.

“Maybe he didn’t have enough time to get it,” Greg mutters, mostly to himself. His head has started to hurt, as if anything else wasn’t already enough.

“There are security cameras at the front of the building, isn’t there?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “And one on every floor.”

“Well then, let’s see what has been caught on camera,” Mycroft says, and when Greg starts to rise from the floor, he adds in a firm voice: “Tomorrow. We’ll look at them tomorrow.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Greg says, only barely keeping the frustration out of his tone. “Why does it feel like we’re no closer than before?” he asks.

“Because it’s late,” Mycroft says, “and you’ve had a long day.”

“Guess so.”

“Will you be alright?” Mycroft asks. The question is both irritating and moving, and both aspects make it hard for Greg to answer.

“Yes,” he says, because what else could he say. “You can go.”

Mycroft is obviously hesitating. Greg waits, and after a long moment Mycroft nods and stands up. Greg stands up too, trying not to think about how stiff he’s going to be tomorrow. He’s getting old, there are no other explanations.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mycroft says at the door. “Cold, not heat,” he adds, and Greg doesn’t have to ask what he means.

“See you,” Greg says. Mycroft leaves and the door closes behind him. The lock clicks and Greg lets out a _Fuck me_ in a huff of breath.

Underneath the aching pain in his side, there is still an echo of a whisper of the touch of Mycroft’s fingertips on his skin, and with that, an unexpected yet unmistakeably familiar flutter behind his ribs that has nothing to do with the bruising.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next part of the series will be up by the new years! I'll take a little break (after nanowrimo), but there will be one bonus chapter before that! stay tuned & tell me your thoughts!


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